


In Every Age

by Kholran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bigotry & Prejudice, Everybody Dies, If you were ok with the movie, Loosely based around the movie, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, RMS Titanic, Sexual Content, You'll be fine with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kholran/pseuds/Kholran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what it says on the tin. Les Amis do Titanic.  You may have seen this floating around on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a cracktastic plot bunny that attacked me in the middle of the night and just wouldn't leave me alone. And it turned into a behemoth that...is maybe still a little cracktastic but not as much as I thought it would be.

Gare Saint-Lazare was bustling already. Porters scurried to and fro, taking luggage from carriages and motor cars to the waiting train. People of all stations strolled the platform, some looking around haughtily, others struggling to read signs written in a language not their own. A single word united them: Titanic. 

For the wealthy, her maiden voyage would be something to flaunt, something to boast about over supper. For the penniless, she was a fresh start somewhere new, in a land of opportunity. For all of them, she was indeed the Ship of Dreams.

Enjolras stepped out of his family's automobile to the sound of his parents' incessant prattling. He was already tired of hearing how luxurious the ship was, and how it was incapable of sinking, and who of note would be aboard. He wanted nothing more than to remain here in Paris, to continue his studies and his charitable endeavours far removed from his father's oversight. He held no love for their kind. The sort who would step all over the less fortunate if it was profitable. The sort who would no doubt be in abundance on Titanic. 

He wasn't stupid. Enjolras knew exactly why he had been all but ordered to accompany his mother and father to America. He was fast approaching an age where marriage was expected, and on this voyage, he would be rubbing elbows with some of the wealthiest people in the world. No doubt his father hoped to broker some kind of arrangement that would be most beneficial to him and his ever-depleting wealth. It didn't matter in the slightest that Enjolras was interested in neither the money nor the women.

“Come, dear, this way.” His mother called him as though she were summoning a dog, leaving her husband to see to the luggage, and making her way toward a pair of familiar faces. 

One of them was the reason Enjolras hadn't flat out refused to set foot on the ship in the first place. Combeferre, standing at his father's side, shot him a knowing smile before politely greeting Enjolras' mother. The two boys had met only a few years prior, shortly after Enjolras' family moved to Paris. One single conversation (more like a debate, really), and Enjolras felt like he'd known Combeferre his entire life. From then on, they had been as brothers, even lodging together in a small apartment close to the university while classes were in session. 

“You're late. I was starting to worry you weren't going to show up after all.” Combeferre drew Enjolras far enough from their parents' conversation so as not to be pulled into it.

“What did you expect me to do, jump out of the car and run for it?” 

“Knowing you?” 

“What kind of humanitarian would I be if I left you alone with these vultures?” Enjolras countered, feeling his mood lift, if only by a tiny bit. 

Combeferre laughed, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder, and then led the way to the train just as the first blast of the whistle sounded through the station. They had a six hour journey ahead of them to the port of Cherbourg.

*****

Grantaire looked at the cards in his hands, studied them, before bringing his eyes up to the two men across the table. He had no idea who they were, and was fairly certain they didn't speak French, but that hardly mattered. They had been more than willing to buy a round of drinks in exchange for a seat at the card table, and that made them practically family in Grantaire's book. He spared one more glance for the man seated at his side before his eyes returned to the cards. He tried not to smile.

Jean Prouvaire topped the list of Grantaire's favourite poker partners for one singular reason. No one suspected him. He was soft-spoken, flowery, and nearly always had a ribbon or three braided into his hair. His very nature gave him an air of innocence. It was all a lie. If there was one thing Jean Prouvaire wasn't, it was naïve. He had a sharp mind, an an even sharper tongue, when it wasn't too busy reciting poetry. He found inspiration in everything, including cards, and had on one memorable occasion tipped a game in his favour by revealing a hand he didn't even hold in some kind of free verse. Accidentally, of course.

Neither Grantaire nor Jehan (as he was known to friends) had more than a few centimes to their names, the last of which joined the pile at the center of the table. It seemed the men across from them had less than that. Grumbling to one another in a language Grantaire didn't understand, they placed two folded papers on top of the coins. He leaned forward to see the writing on them, to assess their worth, brows raising when he saw the printed words WHITE STAR LINE, and just beneath it, “Titanic”. That name had been all over the newspapers lately, and contrary to popular belief, he did actually read.

His hand could have been better. If Jehan had an equally awful draw, they would both be shit out of luck. Grantaire didn't suppose that would bother Jehan in the slightest. Give him an open field and a clear sky and he was perfectly content. Grantaire, on the other hand, wouldn't even be able to buy a drink to drown his sorrows. When his eyes raised from the cards again, he caught Jehan looking at him with an airy smile on his face. That either meant something very good, or something very bad.

“Moment of truth,” Grantaire finally spoke gruffly once all the cards had been exchanged and all the wagers had been made. One of his opponents threw down his cards, and he didn't need to speak the language to know that what came out of the man's mouth wasn't polite. 

“Nothing.”

He laid down his own hand. “Pair of Jacks.” It was followed by a two-pair revelation across the table, and Grantaire felt his heart sink a little. Finally, all eyes rested on Jehan, who still clutched his cards and was staring off into space until he realized everyone was waiting on him. Customarily, he blushed at the attention, and slowly laid down his cards. The smile on his face had turned somewhat catlike. 

For all his apparent frivolity, Jehan played a mean game of poker. No one would have guessed that his hands held a straight flush. Grantaire took a moment to revel in the matching looks of utter shock on their opponents' faces before letting out a loud whoop. He might actually have kissed Jehan if he'd been any more drunk and any less aware of his surroundings. Grantaire settled instead for hastily gathering up both the tickets and the assorted coins while the other two men shouted at each other. The bigger of the two suddenly seized the front of Grantaire's shirt. Expecting a fist to the face (it wouldn't have been the first time), he was more than a little surprised when the man let him go and swung at his companion instead.

Taking advantage of the diversion, Grantaire and Jehan made a quick retreat from the café. A few blocks away, they finally paused long enough to catch their breath and then unfold the two tickets they had won. For a few moments, neither of them spoke, barely believing what they now held.

“So. To America then?” Jehan asked breathlessly, his eyes sparkling.

Grantaire's reply, which would have been a strongly worded affirmative, was cut off by the sound of a train whistle. They looked at each other, then took off sprinting again, this time with a destination in mind. The train was already starting to move when they finally jumped on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the fic is taken from a song title from the musical Titanic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out to sea.

The sky was growing dark by the time the last passengers had left the tenders and boarded the massive ship. The entire process had barely taken any time at all; a fortunate thing considering Titanic had arrived nearly an hour late. Enjolras had been ready to start a riot, not at the timetable, but because even the ferries had been separated by class. Third class passengers had been herded into a smaller tender (“Look at them, being treated like cattle!”), obviously not as well-appointed as their own boat and made even more crowded by the baggage it also carried.

Only Combeferre's calming influence, and the logical argument that they would need to go to a different part of the ship (“I'm not suggesting it's right, mind you,” he was careful to say) prevented a scene right there on the dock. That hadn't stopped a muscle in Enjolras' jaw from twitching angrily for the next two hours, and he virtually stormed his way to their state rooms once they had boarded. Even his father seemed to recognize the powder keg for what it was, and made no objection when Enjolras chose to stay and help their maid settle the luggage instead of going out to mingle.

Four decks below, fresh from the very tender over which Enjolras had been ready to cause an uproar, Jehan and Grantaire navigated a maze of hallways that all looked identical. A far cry from the polished wood and luxurious carpeting of the first class decks, these corridors were all whitewashed and spartan. At least they had the advantage of being able to read the signs. 

“Finally!” Grantaire exclaimed as they stood before the right door. “Whose idea was it to put so many damn hallways on a ship? I'm afraid to leave again. There might be a minotaur down here somewhere, just waiting for one of us to get lost.”

“Start making breadcrumb trails when you go out?” Jehan suggested, grinning over his shoulder. He opened the door to reveal two more men speaking the same language as their poker opponents from that morning. They silenced, and regarded the newcomers with confusion etched on their faces. Jehan waved cheerfully at them and then tossed his single sack of belongings up on the top bunk.

“Hey, who says you get the top one?” Grantaire whined, although it was all for show. There was no way in hell he was going to try and fight Jehan for the claim. Jehan was scary when he wanted to be. With a melodramatic sigh, he threw himself down onto the bottom mattress. He'd been running on excitement (and maybe just a little bit of alcohol) all day, and only then did he realize just how exhausted he was. As meagre as the trappings of the room were, they were still better than a park bench. There was a real mattress, and it wasn't raining, in any case. It was early by his standards, but he drifted off soon after, lulled by the hum of the engines and the promise of a new start in a week's time.

*****

The following day saw the ship to the Irish coast, and then westward into the open waters of the Atlantic. Grantaire and Jehan had made an attempt to explain who they were to their roommates to no avail (“Jehan, sometimes your vocabulary is so archaic _I_ don't understand it”). Rather than sit around and stare at each other in awkward silence, Jehan grabbed Grantaire's hand and pulled him out the door, citing the need to figure out how to get to and from their room without getting hopelessly lost.

Of course, Jehan didn't care one bit if they _did_ end up hopelessly lost. He always had been more about the journey than the destination. By the time they reached the forward deck, Grantaire was fairly sure he could locate both the dining saloon and their room, so he supposed the afternoon had been a success. Now, he was faced with a wide expanse of nothing but blue. Blue sky, and blue water as far as the eye could see. Jehan was already striding toward the bow, the wind whipping his long hair and pulling some of it out of its braid. 

Grantaire followed, hands gripping the railing and looking over. The ship cut through the water like a knife, throwing whitecapped waves in its wake. A hint of movement caught his eye, and he reached out to Jehan, pointing down into the water once he'd gotten the poet's attention. 

“Dolphins! Do you see 'em?” he called over the sound of the wind and water. 

“Look at that one jump!” Jehan practically squealed with delight, obviously taken in one of his flights of fancy. Grantaire knew then he'd be hearing about this moment for the rest of the night, probably in great detail, in iambic pentameter. His eyes rose up to scan the horizon. Anyone else might have shouted something inspiring, or life affirming. Grantaire didn't believe in that kind of bullshit, so he said nothing, letting Jehan do all the chattering for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love at first sight.

“...largest moving object in all history,” Ismay was saying to his dining companions. 

Enjolras had stopped paying attention half an hour ago. His attempted hunger strike hadn't lasted more than a few hours into the afternoon, when his father demanded he join them for luncheon with Combeferre and his father, the ship's designer and some other Very Important People. He had practically been able to _hear_ the capital letters in his father's speech. 

Admittedly, Enjolras had found Thomas Andrews very hard to dislike, and Molly Brown even moreso. Ismay, on the other hand, was arrogant and far too pleased with himself. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it just as their waiter appeared to begin taking orders. That earned him a disapproving look from both parents.

“You know I don't like that habit,” his mother admonished. 

Truth be told, neither did he. Enjolras only indulged to silently demonstrate how much he despised being there. He didn't try very hard to avoid exhaling the smoke right into his mother's face, which only sparked his father's temper. “He knows, dear.” With a withering look, Enjolras' father grabbed the cigarette right out of his son's hand and snuffed it out before ordering lunch for all three of them. 

“You gonna cut it for him too? He seems kinda grown up for that,” Molly Brown interjected, shooting Enjolras a wink as she jumped right back into the conversation at the other end of the table. “So which one of you boys came up with the name?”

Of course Ismay took credit for that too, rambling on about size and power in that same self-assured tone of voice. 

“Are we still discussing the ship? It sounds like Freudian overcompensation if you ask me,” Enjolras finally bit out, interrupting Ismay mid-sentence. Combeferre nearly choked on his tea and even Andrews had to hide a snort of laughter behind his hand. He stood abruptly, excusing himself and stalking out before anyone could make an attempt to stop him going. 

*****

When the dolphins finally fell behind, and they got bored staring out at nothing but water, Grantaire and Jehan strolled from the front of the ship to the back and settled themselves down on a bench. Others were out taking advantage of the sun and fair weather, and Grantaire found himself wishing he'd brought his sketchbook with him. There were so many interesting people, enough to keep him occupied for hours. He'd have to make a point of carrying the portfolio around with him from now on. 

Near to where they were sitting, there was one such point of intrigue leaning against the railing and smoking a cigarette. Grantaire found his gaze drawn there, although he couldn't begin to say why. Maybe it was just his artist's sense; he'd always been somehow pulled towards people with unusual stories, and this man looked like he had one. As though he could feel eyes on him, the man flicked the butt off the side of the ship and turned towards them. He didn't seem angry about being watched, but he didn't seem like someone who ran from many fights either, and probably started his fair share. 

He started towards their bench just as a crewman came by, three dogs in tow, interrupting his progress with something of a dirty glare. Like the dogs were more important than the man he'd nearly run over. To him, they probably were, Grantaire thought. 

“You know you're at the bottom of the heap when they're bringing the first class dogs down here to shit all over the deck,” the burly stranger said, eyeing the crewman's back. He turned back to fix a wide smile on Grantaire and Jehan.

“Could be worse. They could be forcing us to clean it up. You know, if they really wanted to put us in our proper place,” Grantaire replied. He was inexplicably relieved that their newfound acquaintance didn't mention being watched only a moment before.

“As if any of us would ever dare forget it.” The man let out a genuine bark of laughter, and extended a hand to both Grantaire and Jehan in turn. “Name's Bahorel.”

Grantaire heard Jehan introduce himself, but he'd found himself suddenly at a complete loss for words. He'd chanced a look at the deck above, and been graced with the very visage of Adonis. There wasn't any way the man standing there could possibly be a real person. Grantaire in that instant was certain he'd somehow fallen, hit his head, and was hallucinating perfection itself in human form. Plain and simple, he was staring. And maybe drooling a little, but definitely staring, openly and unabashedly. 

Not even Jehan's hand waving inches from his face could tear his eyes away from the vision. He was beautiful, yes, but there was a depth there too, a weight to his gaze. It met Grantaire's and held, and he forgot to breathe. The moment passed as quickly as it began. Grantaire blinked and another young man had appeared at the blond's side. They exchanged words, the newcomer briefly following his companion's line of sight (and Grantaire could feel the scrutiny even at that distance), and then they were gone. 

Grantaire let out the breath he'd been holding and finally seemed to remember where he was. Jehan was grinning at him in a very unnerving way and Bahorel was trying hard not to laugh (mercifully he didn't seem at all perturbed that Grantaire had just been openly staring at another man). He had never believed in love at first sight, that was Jehan's territory, and yet here he was, and there was no other word for it. 

“Good luck with that,” Bahorel said, shaking his head and practically reading Grantaire's thoughts. “That's a first class deck. You'd have better luck with the angel Gabriel himself.”

That much was probably true, but it didn't stop Grantaire dwelling on every detail of the encounter long after they'd parted ways.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fortunate accidents.

Grantaire was still thinking about him that night. Even Jehan, the hopeless romantic, had eventually grown tired of teasing him about it (“I am _not_ 'struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight', you verbose twit!”) and left him alone to wander back up to the aft deck after supper. The sun was gone now, and despite Titanic's own lights, he had no trouble seeing the stars from where he lay on the same bench they'd occupied earlier. He had a cigarette in one hand and a flask in the other, mostly full thanks to the White Star Line's generous supply of alcohol. 

With any luck, he'd be able to get himself drunk enough to forget the Apollonian figure from that afternoon. And the way the sun caught on his golden hair. And the way his blue eyes had sent a shudder right through Grantaire. And the way the cut of his suit had looked positively-- fuck. He was doomed. He took another swig for good measure, and then a long pull from the cigarette. The way the smoke blew out of his mouth looked like the steam from the stacks.

Grantaire tried to seize that thought, but the harder he tried to force himself not to think about the man on the first class deck, the more clear the picture in his mind became. His contemplation was only interrupted by a purposeful stride. The click of expensive shoes on the wooden deck told him it was neither crewman nor steerage passenger like himself, and he sat up, with a frown. There wasn't much in the direction the footsteps were going except the back of the ship. It was the sight of blond hair that made his heart leap up into his throat.

*****

Dinner had been a nightmare. Maybe a bigger nightmare than lunch had been. He'd managed to excuse himself more politely this time, but his movements had been forced, wooden. Every bit of the conversation around him had made him beyond angry. He wanted to slam his hand down on the table and rail against everything they stood for, to give voice to the people he knew were only a few decks below. The people who would never have been allowed to set foot in the room, much less sit at the table and represent themselves. It had bothered Combeferre too, he knew; his friend simply had more tact than he did, and more patience to deal with those people.

Enjolras needed space, and fresh air, and a chance to let his temper die down before he made any attempt to see his parents again. He walked, without any real aim, until there was nowhere else to walk. His hands gripped the stern railing until his knuckles turned white, and he heaved a deep breath out into the blackness. Looking down, Enjolras focused on the churning wake, spreading out in a v-shape behind the great ship. There was something calming in the abstract swirls, and Enjolras felt some of his tension drain away. Letting his shoulders relax, he raised one foot to rest gently on the railing.

And then he was bowled sideways by a heavy weight, sending him crashing to the deck without any warning at all. When he looked up, he met the gaze of the dark haired man that had, apparently, seen fit to tackle him. There was a faint spark of recognition; Enjolras had seen him earlier when he'd stormed away from his lunch.

“What the hell were you thinking!?” the man was exclaiming, causing Enjolras to look at him in a mixture of alarm and confusion. 

“ _Me?_ What were _you_ thinking? If you hadn't noticed, _you_ assaulted _me_.”

“I thought you were going to jump! You were- I saw you about to climb the railing!”

“ _Jump?_ Are you completely insane? Do you have any idea how far down it is? And how cold it would be? No one in their right mind would do something like that!”

“Yeah, well, I don't know what kind of mind you're in, and you looked like you were going to do something stupid so you should probably thank me for saving you anyway,” Grantaire practically shouted.

There was a long drawn out silence in which they stared at each other with wide eyes, and then suddenly the absurdity of the entire thing seemed to hit them both and they were laughing, still tangled up and sprawled on the deck. 

When he'd composed himself, Enjolras' “saviour” climbed to his feet and extended his hand. “I go by Grantaire.”

“Enjolras. I'd say it's a pleasure, but...” He grasped Grantaire's outstretched hand anyway, and let the other man pull him to his feet. After all, not even Combeferre had managed to lift his mood quite as much as this Grantaire had.

“Oi!” A third voice had joined in, except this one wasn't conversational. Apparently their raised voices hadn't gone unnoticed. The ship's quartermaster stood looking from one to the other, taking in the scene. Enjolras, well-dressed but ruffled, and Grantaire...significantly less well-dressed. It didn't seem to take the officer long to jump to a conclusion. “Stay where you are,” he ordered Grantaire, “and fetch the Master at Arms,” he called to the sailor that had followed him.

*****

Not ten minutes later, Grantaire had been gifted with a very unfashionable pair of handcuffs. They had been joined not only by the Master at Arms but by an older man he assumed was Enjolras' father, and the young man he had seen him with earlier. The former was frothing at him, and for once in his life, Grantaire had the sense to keep his mouth closed. 

“What made you think you could rough up my son? Gutter rats like you, all the same, no manners at all. Look at me while I'm speaking, boy,” he commanded when Grantaire's gaze slipped toward Enjolras.

“Stop it, father. It was an accident, that's all.” Now everyone was looking at Enjolras. “I...tripped. I came back here to see the propellers that we had been discussing at lunch, you remember, and I must have stumbled over something. I might have fallen overboard, if not for him.” Enjolras' father was looking incredulous, and he could see from Combeferre's expression that he didn't believe a word of it. Of course he would be able to tell that Enjolras was flat out lying to keep Grantaire from being arrested; Combeferre knew everything. 

“Is that the way of it, then?” the officer asked, turning back to Grantaire.

With all eyes back on him, he nodded. He was grateful, of course he was, but it didn't make any sense. Why would Enjolras bother covering for him when, in retrospect, it had been his fault, and technically he had 'roughed up the gentleman's son? Grantaire immediately dismissed the idea that maybe Enjolras had felt the same spark he had felt earlier that day. Of course he hadn't. Grantaire was a nobody, there wasn't anything about him that could possibly interest someone like Enjolras.

“Well then, he's a hero! Well done!” the Master at Arms pronounced, interrupting Grantaire's thoughts. Those were certainly words he had never heard before, and he didn't know quite how to react to them. He settled for looking down at his wrists while the officer removed the cuffs. “Back to our brandy then, gentlemen?” Grantaire was suddenly of no more concern to the ship's crew, nor, it seemed, to Enjolras' father, who turned his back on him without another word. 

“Should he not be given some manner of compensation for his efforts?” Combeferre had been silent until that point, but he spoke then without hesitation. It stopped Enjolras' father in his tracks, and he turned back with a frown on his face. 

“Yes, yes, I suppose.” He reached into his pocket and removed a ten franc coin. He held it out to Grantaire as though he were afraid of actually being touched by someone from steerage. 

“Is that really all I'm worth to you?” There was a hard edge to Enjolras' tone now, even if inwardly, he was immensely proud of Combeferre for his compliance. Because of him, his father had less money and someone in need of it had more. A tiny victory, but he'd take it. 

The frown deepened. If they had been alone, Enjolras' father probably would have ignored him and walked away, but he had his image to uphold. He looked Grantaire up and down, scrutinizing, and then he smiled. It was cold, and didn't reach his eyes. “Join us for dinner tomorrow night. Surely my son would be pleased to extend such a hand of friendship to someone of your...station.”

Grantaire was pretty sure 'friendship' had nothing to do with it, but he wasn't one to back down from a challenge. “Sure. Count me in,” he replied, meeting the older man's gaze evenly. There was definitely a malicious glint there when he finally turned away. He gripped his son's arm as he passed, leaving Enjolras no choice but to follow along. It was a small consolation that he did look back and meet Grantaire's eyes briefly.

He didn't realize he was staring again until Combeferre cleared his throat. “Someday, maybe I'll hear the real story,” he said softly, without any of the enmity that had coloured Enjolras' father's voice. Instead, he sounded almost amused. “Until tomorrow. Good night, Monsieur.” With an absent wave of his hand, Combeferre trailed after the others, and Grantaire was left standing alone, again, wondering what exactly had just happened.

*****

Enjolras had dressed for bed reflecting on the events of that night. He had hoped for the chance to talk to Combeferre about it, but was denied. After leaving the outside deck, they had rejoined the rest of the men in the smoking lounge, where there was almost no privacy, and then when the cigars had run out, they had been herded into their separate cabins for the night. He didn't think he could afford to risk his father's ire by going out again so late. Instead, he'd shut himself in his room, claiming fatigue from the stress of nearly falling off the ship.

In reality, he needed to sort his own thoughts. Enjolras had never put any stock in romance. It had always been a waste of time, and those kinds of distractions would only take his attention away from his studies, and his plans for the future. _You don't have any schoolwork to do here,_ his traitorous mind provided. _There was a connection there, and you know it._ And therein lay the problem. He didn't want a connection. With anyone. Certainly not anyone with whom he couldn't hope to have any kind of future. So why couldn't he get Grantaire out of his head?

Despite his wishes to be left alone, there was a knock on his door. It opened before he could give an answer, and his mother entered with a thin smile on her face. Enjolras didn't return it. “You've seemed so unhappy this entire voyage,” she began, coming to sit next to him on the edge of the bed. “I have something for you. I was going to wait until we arrived in America, but after what happened tonight, your father and I decided that perhaps now was a better time.”

She withdrew a velvet-covered box, and Enjolras felt his blood run cold at what he knew instinctively was inside it. Sure enough, his mother opened the box to reveal an ornate ring set with a blue stone. His sharp intake of breath wasn't so much awe as it was sheer terror that they were going to try and force him into an engagement. “A blue diamond,” she continued, as though she hadn't noticed his reaction. “It was your father's gift to me, when he proposed, and now I'm passing it on to you with the hope that we will be accompanied by a daughter-in-law on our return journey.” 

Enjolras was silent. “I don't know what to say,” he choked out at last around the dryness in his mouth, since his mother seemed to be awaiting some kind of response from him. He couldn't tell her what he was really thinking. Or rather, of whom he was really thinking. If his mother knew he'd been entertaining thoughts all evening of not just another man but one from steerage, she would probably faint on the spot. 

Luckily, those words alone satisfied her. “I don't expect you to say anything to me, dear. I have every confidence that you will find the right words when you find the right woman.” She stood then, smoothing down her skirts. He was graced with the same watery smile, and then she was gone from the room, the ring with her to be returned to the safe. Enjolras was glad for it. He wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep at all if he had to keep looking at it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know you.

It was mid-morning, and Jehan had practically dragged him out of their room (again) and into the third-class saloon. Breakfast had ended an hour ago, opening up the room to all manner of other activities. A small group was gathered around the upright piano in the corner, and children ran between the tables, making up games to play with each other. Grantaire was currently entertaining one of the younger boys, who had decided the funny faces he could draw were much more interesting than the other kids' games. 

Bahorel had gotten hold of the rest of his portfolio and was flipping thoughtfully through his work. Jehan was sitting a few seats away talking to a newly-made acquaintance, introduced to Grantaire only a few minutes ago as Courfeyrac. Judging by way the poet was blushing and giggling, Jehan had just lost any right to tease him for being smitten. 

“Do that guy, but making a funny face,” the boy was saying to Grantaire, pointing out a random person in the crowd. Pretty much all of his requests thus far had ended with “but making a funny face”. Sighing, Grantaire obliged, glancing over to the boy next to him. He couldn't have been more than ten, and yet he'd never seen him accompanied by an actual parent. That probably explained why the boy's vocabulary was so very colourful for someone his age. 

“Gavroche, where's your sister?” Grantaire asked as he sketched out the figure's expression. He was hoping someone would come along soon to relieve him of custody, although it seemed fairly obvious from his tenacity that Gavroche was used to taking care of himself and didn't need anyone to mind him.

He shrugged in response to the question, kicking his feet since they didn't reach the floor from where he sat. “Hell if I know. 'Ponine kept goin' on about some boy she saw, firs' class an' everything. She's probably creepin' around after him somewhere.”

No sooner did the words leave his mouth, the girl in question appeared in front of them, holding out her hand and muttering a quiet thanks to Grantaire. He smiled at the both of them, and handed the piece of doodle-filled paper over to Gavroche to keep. With a cheeky grin, the boy disappeared into the crowd, his sister trailing after him. 

Grantaire was about to settle in and start on something new when a hush fell over the assembled group of passengers. They had all turned toward the staircase, and the figure that descended it. With the sun at his back from the outside, he seemed to glow with his own light. It was abundantly clear he didn't belong among them, at least in their eyes. Enjolras may have looked out of place, but he didn't feel it. In his mind, these people were just as good as the ones eating caviar in first class. Better maybe. 

He scanned the room until he found Grantaire, and then tried to hide a smile as he approached. Grantaire himself didn't have to try. He was too shocked at seeing Enjolras there to express anything but surprise. So, it seemed, were Bahorel and Jehan, the former of whom was actually slack-jawed. He stood from his chair to greet Enjolras, trying to pretend like his heart wasn't suddenly beating from somewhere near his vocal chords again. 

“May I talk to you?” Enjolras asked, drawing to a halt in front of him. “Alone?” he added, noticing all the pairs of eyes on him. 

“Uh,” Grantaire replied, fumbling for some kind of coherent response. “Yeah- yes! Of course.” He quickly gathered up his sketches and the pencil he'd been using, and followed after Enjolras, who was already starting back the way he'd come. Behind him, he could hear Bahorel's astonished laugh and Jehan's rush of words explaining to Courfeyrac why what he'd just witnessed was so very very important.

*****

“We've been walking for over an hour now, and discussed everything from the weather to the merits and flaws of Rousseau's social contract to what I would hypothetically do if I was hypothetically made the sole ruler of a hypothetical country but something tells me you didn't come find me to make small talk or ask my opinion on philosophy or assess my suitability to govern a populace.” Grantaire finally stopped and turned to face Enjolras. He ignored the people sitting in deck chairs nearby who were giving him dirty looks. He wasn't sure if they were objecting to his existence, or just the fact that at the moment, he was existing where they could see him. “So out with it. Why _did_ you bring yourself all the way down to talk to me?”

“I wanted to thank you.” Enjolras' tone was decisive, almost as though he'd actually practiced this.

“Thank me? What for? You said yourself you weren't going to jump. All I did was interrupt your evening.”

“I wasn't. But I wanted to thank you for caring enough to stop me if I had been about to jump.”

Grantaire looked skeptically at him. “You really like dealing in hypotheticals, don't you? So let me get this straight. You're thanking me for something I actually did, on behalf of something you could have done but weren't actually going to do?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone ever tell you your logic is severely screwed up?”

“Once or twice.”

There was silence between them for a few minutes, but it wasn't entirely uncomfortable.

“So since we're on the subject of hypothetical situations. You looked like you were gripping that railing pretty hard. One might wonder what could cause someone like you to hypothetically consider jumping off the back of a ship.” 

“Someone like me? A spoiled rich kid, you mean?”

“No, not what I meant at all. You don't seem very much like them, if you don't mind my saying. For one, none of them would be caught dead talking to...what was it your father called me last night? A gutter rat with no manners.” Grantaire looked pointedly towards a couple walking by who had acted scandalized by his presence on their deck.

“Well then, you've answered your own question. I'm not like them. I care about the rights of the people more than profit margins. I want equality, not an amassed fortune. I want to enable those less fortunate to help themselves, not crush them under my heel to make sure I have someone to serve me tea. They represent everything I disdain and- What?” Enjolras cut off mid-sentence when he noticed the odd expression on Grantaire's face.

“Nothing. It's just. There's something about you when you talk like that.” He gave Enjolras a lopsided smile, then cleared his throat. “Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your tirade. Go on. If you hate them so much, why are you here?”

“My father expects me to find a suitably affluent woman to marry.” There was nothing of his earlier passion left in that statement, nor was there any trace of the fire Grantaire had seen only a moment ago in his eyes. 

“And you don't want that.” It wasn't a question. 

“No.”

“Which part? The marrying part, or the woman part?”

Enjolras spun around so fast Grantaire was surprised he didn't tip over. “What kind of question is that!?” he hissed, glancing around to be sure no one else was listening. 

“I thought it was a fairly straightforward one.”

“Along with rude, presumptuous, and incredibly inappropriate. I barely know you, and I don't know what I might have said or done to give you the impression- to make you think that-” Enjolras was so rarely caught flat-footed, and was even more rarely flustered. Words were his gift, and yet he couldn't find any and it was the lack of them that was answering Grantaire's question plainly enough. Drawing himself up, Enjolras resolutely harnessed the decorum he'd been raised to have. “That's not a conversation I'm willing to have, least of all with you.”

“Okay, okay, suit yourself.” Grantaire raised his hands in mock surrender, and Enjolras finally seemed to notice the leather-bound portfolio he'd been carrying around the entire time. Still eyeing Grantaire warily, he plucked it out of his hand and moved to settle on the end of an empty deck chair, flipping through the first few pages. 

“You're an artist?” 

“Try not to sound so surprised.”

There were a few more minutes of silence punctuated by the rustle of paper.

“These are...stunning. You have a real talent, Grantaire.”

“Again with the surprise.”

“I mean it. This is...Oh!” Enjolras had stumbled onto a few pages filled with figure studies, both male and female. The relaxed poses seemed far too casual to have been done for any sort of art class. “And you...drew all of these from life?”

Grantaire nodded, a smile creeping back onto his face. “One of the best things about Paris. Plenty of people willing to take off their clothes for free in the name of art. If you know where to ask, that is.”

Another stretch of silence, and then “You liked this one. He's in here more than once. Was he...important to you?” 

“Montparnasse? Oh no, not at all. He ran a brothel and probably would have slit my throat if he knew I'd been watching him long enough to draw him. But he had a very captivating face, and such intense eyes. See?” Grantaire flipped to another drawing of the same young man, and he'd managed to capture the dangerous glint in his gaze so superbly that Enjolras was suddenly glad they weren't in Paris any more. 

He let Grantaire explain a few more of the drawings to him before speaking up again. “You have a gift, you know. In that you have the ability to really see people.”

“I see you.”

“And?”

Grantaire leaned in close, like he had some great secret to tell, and breathed the words right into Enjolras' ear. “It's not the marriage part.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First class dinners.

The sun had fallen in the sky, but the two men hadn't yet parted company. Grantaire was...well, Enjolras didn't entirely know how to describe him in words, but his presence was refreshing. Compared to all the pomp and pretension of the people with whom his father surrounded him, he was a breath of fresh air. He said what he meant, and while Enjolras didn't always agree with his point of view (particularly when it was picking apart one of his own beliefs), he had to grudgingly admire Grantaire's bluntness. 

For the last half hour, Grantaire had been telling him of all the places he'd travelled. It was quite a list, and one that had actually surprised Enjolras. In their conversation thus far, Grantaire had tended towards the negative, the cynical, and the pessimistic. In Enjolras' experience, those traits didn't often mesh with the ambition to pick up and travel. Then again, they didn't often mesh with the ability to find the kind of beauty in people that Grantaire put onto paper either. The artist seemed something of a walking contradiction to Enjolras, and although he wasn't about to admit it, he was captivated. 

“I haven't decided where I'll go yet when we get to America. Coney Island, maybe. I've heard it's quite the destination,” Grantaire was saying. “Maybe I could make some spare change doing street portraits.”

Enjolras stopped walking to look at him again. He'd let himself forget, over the course of the day, that eventually the ship would reach its destination, and they would go their separate ways, back to the real world and their individual lives. 

“We should go together.” The words came out in a rush before he could stop them. Thoughts of going back to life as it had been a day ago made him feel claustrophobic. It was his attempt to cling to a freedom he was afraid would slip away if his parents got their way. Enjolras' gaze met Grantaire's, and he thought he saw recognition dawning there.

“Okay. We'll go. And get drunk on cheap beer, and ride roller coasters until we get sick.” 

He matched Grantaire's smile, and somehow they had moved so that they were standing entirely too close to be considered appropriate. Enjolras only noticed when he caught sight of his mother, arm in arm with Combeferre, strolling towards them over Grantaire's shoulder. He stepped away almost immediately, but he could tell by the quirk of Combeferre's eyebrow that he hadn't been fast enough. 

“Mother!” he greeted, hoping she, at least, hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. She was busy looking Grantaire up and down the same way his father had the night before. “May I introduce Grantaire? He's the one who intervened last night.”

“Charmed.” She sounded anything but.

Before the awkward silence that followed could stretch too far, the sound of the bugle announcing dinner filled the air. 

“Of all the ways to announce a meal...” Enjolras muttered under his breath, and then spoke more clearly. “Shall we go dress, mother? See you at dinner, Grantaire.” He smiled over his shoulder as he took custody of his mother from Combeferre. 

Grantaire's gaze followed them even after they'd been swallowed by the flurry of people all summoned by the same call. 

“Excuse me for asking but,” Combeferre spoke, grabbing Grantaire's attention at last, “do you have the slightest idea what you're doing?”

The artist laughed, and shook his head. “None whatsoever.”

“Well, you're about to walk into the fire. What exactly were you planning on wearing?” Grantaire shrugged, looking down at how he was already dressed. “I thought as much. Come with me.”

Twenty minutes later, he was standing in front of a full length mirror in Combeferre's room, craning his head to try and see how the back of the dinner jacket looked. The two of them had somehow managed to tame his unruly dark hair with copious amounts of pomade, and Grantaire barely recognized himself in one of Combeferre's extra suits.

“Just as I predicted. You and I are near enough in size,” Combeferre said from somewhere behind him, tying his own bowtie with practiced ease. 

“Pretty close. I guess I owe you. You could have just let me embarrass myself.” Grantaire met his eyes without turning away from the mirror. 

“And miss the chance to see Enjolras react to you cleaning up like this? I think not.” The same furtive smile he wore upon their first meeting was tugging at the corners of Combeferre's mouth again. He wasn't particularly talkative, but Grantaire was starting to think there wasn't much that escaped his notice. 

*****

Grantaire felt unusually self-conscious as he stood waiting at the bottom of the grand staircase. Combeferre had sent him on ahead when his father had returned to their cabin looking for him, and now he wasn't sure what to do except to wait for someone to tell him what to do next. Music from a string quartet filled the air, and he tried not to stare openly at the opulent surroundings. People nodded to him as they passed, and he'd taken to nodding back, just to give himself something to do.

Enjolras' mother and father walked arm in arm down the stairs, and passed him without a second glance. That could only mean... Grantaire raised his gaze to the staircase, only to find Enjolras himself standing at the top. He'd thought him perfect enough the moment he laid eyes on him, but seeing him now, dressed in his best, Grantaire instantly regretted every denial he'd given Jehan. If the poet were here with him, he'd be begging him to compose something on the spot. 

He swallowed hard as he watched Enjolras descend the stairs, and then seized the moment, and bowed at the waist when the blond was finally standing in front of him. “I saw that in a picture show once and I always wanted to do it,” he confessed in response to Enjolras' bemused expression. They fell into step together, meandering in the same direction Enjolras' parents had gone until they were within sight again. 

“Mother, Father, you remember Grantaire?” he asked. Both his parents turned, and Grantaire wished he had his sketch book so he could immortalize the matching expressions of astonishment that crossed their faces. 

“How extraordinary. One might almost mistake you for a gentleman!” Enjolras' father exclaimed at last.

Grantaire hadn't quite known what he was getting himself into, despite Combeferre's warning, but he plastered on the same kind of fake smile that everyone else was wearing. “Almost,” he replied with a tip of his head. The couple turned away from him again and kept walking, and Grantaire felt Enjolras elbow him lightly in the ribs. They followed along behind again, descending yet another staircase into the dining hall itself. Enjolras leaned over every so often to point out someone of note, usually accompanying the names with some reason they weren't as upstanding as they pretended to be. 

Combeferre rejoined them shortly after, his father going on ahead to join Enjolras' parents. “Easy enough to blend in when you look the part, isn't it? All they care about is money. Pretend like you have a fortune, and you're accepted into the club.” They paused when called over by a young man with a pretty blonde girl on his arm. 

“Marius, Cosette. How are you? I'd like you to meet Grantaire.” Enjolras gestured to him, and he dutifully took Combeferre's advice to heart. He placed a chaste kiss to the back of Cosette's outstretched hand, and then grasped Marius' in a firm handshake. 

The young man's brows furrowed for a moment. “Your name sounds familiar. Might we have met before? At a salon in the 16th, perhaps?”

“I don't believe I've had the pleasure,” Grantaire responded smoothly. “My social circle regrettably doesn't extend much beyond the 18th.” And unless this Marius frequented the cafés and brothels in the seedy parts of Paris, he hadn't come anywhere near it, he added to himself. Marius nodded as though he understood, but his face plainly displayed his confusion. 

They took their seats soon after, and then the real test began. The clink of glasses and silverware covered the sound of Enjolras and Combeferre hissing instructions at him. There were far too many rules and social rituals for his liking, but on the plus side, the champagne was top notch. Just when Grantaire was starting to think maybe he would be able to fake his way through after all, Enjolras' father stepped in to make sure he (and everyone else at the table) remembered his status.

“Tell us, how are the accommodations in steerage, Monsieur Grantaire? I hear they're quite good on this ship.”

It probably shouldn't have surprised him, but there was still something about the way he said it, the intent to purposely humiliate another person, that caught Grantaire off guard. Still, he only missed a beat. “Yes, sir. Some of the best I've ever seen. Good food, a comfortable bed, and so few rats.” 

That drew a smattering of uncomfortable laughter. “Monsieur Grantaire is joining us from the third class,” Enjolras' mother chimed in. “It seems he was of some assistance to our son.” Everyone was surreptitiously looking at him now. He could almost see the judgement, now that they all knew he wasn't heir to some kind of fortune, that he wasn't actually one of them. 

When he turned down caviar, it was like some kind of scandal.

“Tell us, where is it you live, exactly?” Enjolras' father seemed determined to catch him out.

“Right now, this ship is my address. After that, I plan to go wherever opportunity takes me.”

“You find that sort of existence appealing?” his mother joined in.

“Well yes, Madame, I do. A month ago, I was walking through the ruins of the Colosseum. A week ago, the halls of the Louvre. The things I've seen, and the people I've met...I couldn't have done that trapped within four walls. So I've learned to take things as they come. Seize the day, and make every day count.” Grantaire was laying it on thick now. He had somehow crossed the line between being honest, and completely bullshitting these people. And they were lapping it up. One of them even raised a glass to him, and the rest of the table followed in a toast. 

After that, the tension was broken. Enjolras' father never hesitated to send a barbed comment in his direction, but the rest of the table stopped looking at him like a side show oddity. Dessert came and went, and at last the table was clear of all the confusing flatware. 

“They'll take cigars and brandy in the smoking room next, and hold a competition to determine which of them is the most egocentric,” Enjolras muttered under his breath. Sure enough, a few of the men were rising to take leave of their respective wives.

“I don't suppose talk of politics and industry will be of any interest to you,” his father said as he passed, although part of him looked like he would have appreciated more time to cut Grantaire apart. 

He and Enjolras had already discussed the same topics earlier, and while he was far more educated on the subjects than his station might have suggested, he had no desire to spend any more time around Enjolras' father. “No. Thank you. It's time for me to go back and row with the rest of the slaves.” Under the table, Grantaire passed the pencil he'd been using back to Combeferre. He stood too, and offered his hand to Enjolras, transferring a folded scrap of paper as they shook. _Make it count. Meet me at the clock._

“Enjolras? Combeferre?” 

“No, father. Combeferre and I have a few matters to discuss regarding our classes.” This seemed like news to Combeferre. “I'm afraid we wouldn't get much work done there.” His father grumbled something about his son's choice of classes, but nodded and then left with Combeferre's father and the rest of the gentlemen. 

Taking that as his own cue, Grantaire bid goodnight to those remaining, all women except for Enjolras and Combeferre, and then took his leave, hoping the former would take him up on the offer. 

*****

“We're not studying, are we?” 

In reply, Enjolras handed over the tiny note Grantaire had given him and gave Combeferre a second to read it. “Do you mind?”

“I feel like I should,” he admitted. “But he's..likeable. And I'm sure there are no words of caution I can give that you haven't already considered. Besides, his presence at dinner prevented you from insulting anyone or storming out, so no, I don't mind.”

“You could come with us,” Enjolras offered.

“It's fine,” Combeferre shrugged. “I met another medical student this afternoon. I wouldn't mind seeking him out to continue the discussion we were having. He seemed knowledgeable, if something of a hypochondriac. There's a library on C Deck. Tell your father we were there, and I'll do the same if asked.”

“I couldn't ask for a better friend.”

“Remember you said that when my sense of responsibility returns and I try to talk sense into you again. And remind Grantaire he's wearing my suit and I want it back.”

*****

True to his word, Grantaire was waiting at the top of the stairs, watching the clock. He turned before Enjolras could speak, as though he had been able to sense his very presence. “So you want to go to a real party?” The grin on his face was infectious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16th and 18th refer to Parisian arrondissements. The 16th is a traditionally wealthy area in the vicinity of the Trocadéro. The 18th is home to Montmartre.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third class parties.

It was crowded, and loud, and Enjolras could barely hear himself think. The band (if one could call them that, since they hadn't known each other before) gathered around the upright piano and played an assortment of instruments that shouldn't have meshed together as well as they did. He wasn't entirely where all the beer was flowing from, but there seemed to be an endless supply of it. Full glasses, empty glasses, and everything in between, littered nearly every surface. 

It didn't seem to matter that many of the people there couldn't understand each other. They shouted in dozens of different languages, as though volume alone would make their words understood. In the middle of the room, there was a raised platform that served as a dance floor, but dancing seemed to be happening all over the place. Courfeyrac was spinning a laughing Jehan around the room, and if anyone cared, no one said anything about it. 

Enjolras sat at a small table, trying to understand what the man across from him was yelling. He didn't speak the language, though, so he could only shrug. Bahorel showed up then, three full glasses in his hands, and while he wasn't much of a drinker, he felt the need to let his inhibitions slip just this once. No matter what else was going on in the room (and there were plenty of distractions), Enjolras' eyes kept finding Grantaire in the crowd. This was his environment, his comfort zone, that much was clear. He had a young boy hoisted up on his shoulders, and they were winding through the crowd. The boy was singing at the top of his lungs; neither the words nor the melody matched the song the band was playing but he didn't appear to care, and he kept on going even as they finished and started a new song. 

By then, Grantaire had spun them over to where Enjolras sat, and he lifted the boy down. “All right, Gavroche. You're on your own for a while, kid.” He held out his hand to Enjolras once the boy had scampered away, and raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Come on. You can't just sit there all night. Dance with me.”

“What? No! I couldn't possibly,” he protested, feeling abnormally self-conscious even as he was dragged to his feet. “Traitor!” Enjolras called over his shoulder as Bahorel gave him a firm shove in Grantaire's direction.

“Don't worry. Look, Jehan and Courfeyrac have been together all night and no one's said a thing to them. Well, nothing that could be understood,” he reconsidered. “We're two friends having fun, that's all.” He thought it best to make such reassurances, rather than project his own feelings; the things on his mind were decidedly more than friendly.

“I don't know any of the steps!” His objections were growing weaker, and he knew it.

“Neither do I. Neither does anyone. Just go with it.”

Grantaire had quite literally swept him off his feet and the room was turning so fast he lost all sense of where they were or where they were going. Enjolras didn't have a chance to breathe again until Grantaire spotted Jehan and Courfeyrac up on the dance floor and stopped moving long enough to pull Enjolras in their direction. He really didn't want his dancing to be the center of attention (this was nothing like public speaking, after all) but it was okay because Grantaire was happy to take that role on himself. 

The artist paused a moment to get a sense for the rhythm, and then started to step in time with the beat. Given how much he'd already had to drink, he shouldn't have been as graceful as he was, or as sure-footed. Not one to be outdone and forgetting he'd wanted to avoid standing out, Enjolras watched his footwork and then matched him step for step until they finally linked arms, twirling around one another in circles. Jehan and Courfeyrac joined back in the dance, and the crowd moved in around them, swallowing them up again.

When dizziness caught up to them, they gave up on dancing and returned to Bahorel's table, where he was engaged in a fierce arm wrestling battle. Grantaire reached over them to grab two full glasses, and handed one off to Enjolras while he took a sip from the other. The blond's competitive streak was in full swing now, and he drained the glass in one go while Grantaire and Bahorel looked on, impressed. Unfortunately it distracted the latter from his match, giving his opponent time to slam his hand down to the table top. 

Bahorel was demanding a rematch when the music picked up again. People were linking arms, making a human train through the room, and only moments later, Jehan had pulled Enjolras into it, who in turn pulled Grantaire into it. By the time the dancing ended, both of them felt lighter than they had in years.

*****

The deck was deserted, save a single crewman mopping up. Enjolras didn't need an escort back to the first class deck, but Grantaire had insisted on walking with him, and he wasn't about to turn down the offer, or the company. This voyage was supposed to cement him firmly in the world of the wealthy, he mused. Instead, all it had shown him was how much he didn't belong there. 

They reached the door, illuminated sign above declaring it the First Class Entrance. “Well. Here we are.” Enjolras stood looking at it for a moment and then turned away. “I don't want to go back yet.” Maybe it was the amount of beer he'd consumed in a relatively short amount of time, but he sounded uncharacteristically petulant. He turned his eyes to the sky. “Look how vast and endless it is up there. Compared to everything else, those people are so small. Small-minded and ultimately insignificant.”

Grantaire snorted beside him. “So you're a philosophical drunk? I thought I was supposed to be the one talking about how insignificant we all are. You're supposed to be the one spouting the power of the people, right?”

Enjolras was pointedly ignoring him now, at least until he noticed a shooting star. “Doesn't that mean we're supposed to make a wish?” He turned at last, finding his face only a few inches from Grantaire's. Their proximity surprised him, but this time he did nothing to move away from it.

“Why? What would you wish for?” There was something hiding in Grantaire's expression, something that looked suspiciously like longing.

Enjolras was surprised to find it matched in himself. It was a foreign feeling, and one he hadn't recognized right away. All at once, every objection he'd made to himself (Combeferre had been right that he'd considered them all, as usual) ran through his mind, and he forced the words out of his mouth. “Something I can't have.” He tore himself away, before he did something impulsive that he would probably come to regret. “Good night, Grantaire.” 

Right then, he was regretting walking away even more. It was tempting, but he didn't look back, not until the solid door slammed behind him with a finality that seemed symbolic.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimatums and recklessness.

Enjolras woke late the following morning. While he would never admit to having a mild hangover, he wasn't up for breakfast in the dining room, so he decided on tea in his family's private promenade. What he hadn't counted on was his father's presence. They ate in awkward silence. Well, Enjolras ate, and his father glared over his cup of coffee. 

“You slept through breakfast.” He broke the silence at last with an obvious statement.

“I was tired.”

“No doubt your activities below decks were taxing.”

Enjolras froze, his cup halfway to his lips. “Did you have someone follow me?” The edge was back in his voice, and he met his father's gaze without flinching.

“There wasn't any need. You come back well into the night, smelling of smoke and cheap beer, and expect me not to notice? You will not behave like that again, do you understand?”

Enjolras set the cup down; his grip on the handle had gotten so tight he was afraid it might snap. “You can't command me like one of your factory workers. I'm your son, not your puppet.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. The man exploded with rage, sweeping everything on tabletop to the deck in a crash of china. “Yes, you are! And as such, you will obey me as a child is supposed to obey his father! You will not make a fool of me!” he roared, towering over Enjolras and going so far as to raise his hand menacingly. It was only the presence of their maid, who had rushed in at the noise, that stopped him from acting. He straightened, and she visibly cowed from him as he stalked past.

It was the suddenness of the outburst that had him rooted to the spot. Enjolras wasn't afraid of his father. If they had been at home, he would have left for his university lodgings without a backward glance, family name be damned. But he wasn't at home, and there were countless ways his father could turn the rest of this voyage, the rest of this entire trip, into an even worse hell. _You made your choice last night when you walked away,_ his inner monologue told him. _Now you have to live with it._

Apologizing profusely to the maid, he helped her clean up the mess with hands that were shaking more with rage than fear.

*****

It was his mother that cornered him next, as if to drive the point home. Unlike his father, she struck with precision.

“You aren't to see that boy again. I forbid you going near him, or any of his sort.”

Enjolras didn't look up from his book, but felt his stomach clench uncomfortably. “Stop it. You'll give yourself a migraine,” he said absently, although his eyes had stopped moving on the page. 

She crossed the room and yanked it out of his hand, forcing him to look at her. “Do you think this is some kind of game? At the rate your father's business is going, you won't _have_ an inheritance to speak of. Is that what you want?”

Enjolras said nothing. She wouldn't like it if he spoke the truth, that he didn't care one bit about the money.

“A good name is all we have, one that we can use to ensure our family's survival,” she went on. “I don't understand this selfishness-”

" _I'm_ being selfish?” he finally interjected. “How dare you and father put this responsibility on my shoulders, against my will?”

“Would you rather see us destitute? Me, put to work as a seamstress, or worse, out on the street? Our home sold, our things scattered?” She brought a hand up to cover her mouth, and Enjolras deflated. He may not have agreed with his parents on much of anything, but he wasn't cruel enough to want to see his own mother suffering. 

“I'm sorry, mother,” he said, and found that he meant it. 

She accepted the apology, returned his book, and then turned to go. “I would like it if you would join me for a tour of the ship this afternoon. Mr. Andrews himself will be showing us around.”

He agreed, if only to give himself something to do, and to keep the peace.

*****

Grantaire wasn't going to accept the way things had ended the night before. He'd spent most of the night laying awake because of it, and come to the conclusion that he had to see Enjolras again. He just couldn't leave it the way they had, not when he felt such a pull towards him. And he was certain the blond had felt it in return. 

Naturally that meant he was going to do something reckless and foolhardy. His friends, rather than offering words of caution or telling him he was being stupid, seemed thoroughly supportive. Jehan had been spouting love poems at him all day (“Romeo & Juliet? _Really,_ Jehan? Everyone dies at the end!”). Courfeyrac had told him in no uncertain terms that if Grantaire wasn't going to go after Enjolras, he would (which earned him a swat and an exaggerated look of woe from Jehan). Bahorel didn't seem to care one way or the other about his love life, but thought it hilarious that he wanted to go cause more trouble in first class.

It was he who gave Grantaire one final push over the railing and then waved him off with a wide smile. 

Recognizing the fact that he really didn't blend in anymore, Grantaire casually lifted a day coat and hat from an unwatched deck chair. Once again dressed the part (well, more or less), no one stopped him. The only problem was that he had no idea where to even start looking for Enjolras. And then, when he rounded a corner, just like that, there he was.

If things like that kept happening, Grantaire was going to have to start believing in fate.

*****

Enjolras was actually finding the afternoon fascinating. He hadn't given much thought to the sciences before, preferring the humanities, but learning was learning, and who better to learn from than the ship's designer himself? He wished Combeferre had been able to join them as well, but he had made other plans (“I'm meeting Joly, the medical student I told you about, and his travelling companion Bossuet for lunch. He's a bit like a walking encyclopedia, although I'm pretty sure he's convinced he actually _has_ every ailment he knows.”). 

They had stopped briefly on the ship's bridge to meet with the Captain himself. Enjolras must have looked concerned when the telegraph operator delivered another ice warning, and one of the officers had come asking after a missing set of binoculars. Captain Smith had assured them the warning was nothing to worry about (“Not unusual at all for this time of year.”), but for some reason it had left him feeling uneasy. That sentiment didn't change as they walked the promenade deck.

“I couldn't help noticing, Mr. Andrews, that the number of lifeboats, multiplied by the capacity you mentioned for each, doesn't account for everyone on board.” His mother looked like she might be angry with him for speaking up. Andrews just regarded him with a mix of surprise and approval. 

“About half, actually. You and that friend of yours don't overlook much, do you?” The Irishman smiled fondly. “I had petitioned for more, and designed a new davit to support a second row of boats, but was overruled. 'Too much clutter, waste of deck space on an unsinkable ship', they said. But don't worry yourself, young master. I've built you a strong ship.”

The group continued on their way, Enjolras trailing behind with his mind still on the boats, when a firm grip pulled him into the deserted gymnasium.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made.

“Grantaire! What do you think you're doing?” Enjolras exclaimed in a harsh whisper, trying to keep his voice low. He wasn't sure how soundproof the windows were, or how far away his mother was. How long before she noticed he was gone?

“I need to talk to you.” Grantaire's imploring tone made something inside his chest ache, but after the morning he'd already had, he couldn't let himself recognize it for what it was.

“I can't be here right now.” He couldn't meet Grantaire's eye either. “I have...duties. Obligations. I need to consider my family's future. My future. I-” 

The artist was standing right in front of him, looking at him with increasing skepticism. “You try too hard. You're insufferably rigid in your beliefs, and refuse to acknowledge any opinion but your own, but beyond all that, you're the most captivating person I've ever met and--”

“Don't do this.” Enjolras shook his head in denial and tried to walk away. Grantaire's hand found his arm and held fast, keeping him where he was.

“Wait, let me get this out. I know who I am...what I am. I know how the world works, and that this would be all kinds of unacceptable. I have no money to my name and nothing to offer you. But I can't just walk away from you, knowing you're going to be miserable for the rest of your life, stuck in some loveless marriage.”

Every word stung. Enjolras was completely unfamiliar with that kind of open honesty. Not even Combeferre had been so blunt. Grantaire had gotten to him, wormed his way inside before Enjolras even knew it had happened, but with his parents' words ringing in his mind, he knew it was just impossible. “It's not up to you to save me from that.” He forced the words out, and hoped none of his inner turmoil showed on his face as he said them. 

Grantaire dropped his arm and pulled back as though he'd just been slapped. “No. No, it isn't. You have to make that choice yourself.”

“I've just made it. Leave me alone, Grantaire.” 

And then he was gone.

*****

Despondent. That was the word Jehan would have used, if he was there. But he wasn't. No one was. Grantaire leaned on the railing at the front of the ship, letting the wind whip around him. It was colder than it was the first time he'd stood there. That was fine, it matched his mood. He should have known better. He should have known where hope and optimism would get him, because it was always the same place. Care about people, and inevitably end up hurt. That was how life worked.

He wanted another drink but he'd drained the flask twenty minutes ago and didn't feel like facing Jehan and Bahorel, who were likely to be in the saloon this time of day. If he were in any other frame of mind, he might have been rendered speechless at the colours in the sky. He was still an artist, after all, and could appreciate that kind of beauty. His thoughts had more in common with the dark current of the ocean, though. At least until...

“Grantaire.”

Just one word, but it was enough. He startled, and turned, finding Enjolras standing a few paces behind. The setting sun was casting him in hues of pink and gold (and Grantaire sure as hell was speechless now). “I thought you wanted me to leave you alone,” he said when he found his voice again, and then swiftly kicked himself mentally for it.

Enjolras shrugged. “I changed my mind. Jehan said you might be--”

“Come here. I want to show you something.” Grantaire cut him off, and beckoned him closer. He was fully aware that they were in full view of anyone who might have come walking by, but he wanted to share this before he lost the chance. Just in case Enjolras changed his mind back, because ebullient as Grantaire had suddenly become, cynicism wasn't something he could instantly give up. “And close your eyes or this isn't going to work.”

He led Enjolras the last few steps to the bow, and guided him until he was leaning over the rail at the waist “You can look.” Grantaire knew from experience that standing in such a way made it look like the ship had disappeared. It was like gliding over the water with wings. Jehan had been the one to point it out to him. Now he was sharing it with Enjolras, and he couldn't have asked for anything more. He was standing close enough to feel Enjolras' sharp intake of breath, and Grantaire boldly braced one hand against his hip. The mass of his body blocked the gesture from anyone else's eyes, just as it did when Enjolras' hand covered his own. 

They stood there, unmoving, in complete silence for a long while, and then: “You know, this seems ridiculously sentimental for someone like you.”

“Shut up.” 

*****

Grantaire had been remarkably virtuous as they went back inside together, and all through dinner (which Enjolras took with him in third class despite the triple threat of Bahorel, Jehan, and Courfeyrac). His thoughts were far less virtuous, and every look he directed at Enjolras seemed to say 'wait until we're finally alone'. Reaching that point was easier said than done. His and Jehan's bunk mates were in the room when he'd gone back to retrieve his portfolio (Enjolras had just told him to bring it, and hadn't said why), and there were too many people in the halls when they made their way back to the first class decks.

Once Enjolras had let them into his family's stateroom, he had the opportunity, but found his desire tempered by his fear of coming face to face with one (or both) of his parents. He was also a little awestruck by the opulence. He was so busy running his fingers over the gilded designs on the fireplace (and who the hell puts a _fireplace_ on a boat?) that he didn't notice Enjolras leave the room, until he called back into it.

“My father insists on lugging this thing everywhere we go,” he spoke, and Grantaire turned to see him opening a heavy safe. 

“Are we, uh..expecting them any time soon?” 

“No. My father won't be back until the cigars run out, and Mother uses this time to catch up on her gossip. We'll be alone here, for a while.” There was an undertone in that promise that spoke straight to Grantaire's baser instincts, but it seemed Enjolras had something else in mind. He closed the safe again but held something in his hand, a box which he handed to Grantaire.

Opening it, the artist cracked a smile. “Well I'm flattered, but it's kind of soon,” he teased, and then returned his focus to the ring inside. “What is that, a sapphire?”

“Diamond. A rare blue diamond.” Enjolras had moved closer, close enough to look over his shoulder and down at the box in Grantaire's hands. “I'm supposed to give it to an acceptable woman, but I think I'd rather have you draw me wearing it. And nothing else. Like one of your models.”

Grantaire nearly dropped the box.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nudity in the name of art.

Grantaire was trying hard to keep his thoughts on anything and everything except what Enjolras was doing behind his closed bedroom door. He had already dragged a chaise longue into place, and rearranged the pillows more than once before he was satisfied with the way the light hit them. Next came his tools, pencils and charcoal, meticulously set out for his use. He was carefully sharpening one into a point with a pocketknife when the door opened, and only luck kept him from slicing his own hand open when he looked up.

Enjolras stood framed in the doorway, a red silk sheet wrapped around his body. The way he'd let it slip down off his shoulders _had_ to be intentional, Grantaire thought. In any case, it was making professionalism somewhat difficult. 

“I have enough formal portraits at home,” he said, striding into the room (and Grantaire was _definitely not looking_ at the way the sheet parted to reveal his legs to mid thigh with each step). Enjolras stopped, and tossed a tiny silver coin into Grantaire's lap. “You told me you might draw for money in America, so as your first paying customer, I expect to get exactly what I want.” He let the sheet slip further down, and Grantaire's breath caught in his chest.

“Over on the bed. Chaise,” he corrected, and indicated the piece of furniture he'd arranged. Enjolras needed very little instruction. He stretched fluidly across the cushions, cat-like in the graceful way he moved. Grantaire only needed to make a few suggestions, paying careful attention to the way light and shadow played across pale, flawless skin. At the last moment, he draped the discarded sheet across Enjolras' shoulder, letting the rest of it spill over the chair. “The first time I saw you, I would have sworn you were the god Apollo himself, and he is rarely without his cloak,” Grantaire told him by way of explanation. “What about the ring?” 

Enjolras only smiled, and then lifted one hand in a gesture that was very ungodlike. The ring was too small for his own hand, so it sat proudly displayed just above the second knuckle of his third finger. 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, but Enjolras was calling the shots here, and he aimed to please. With a faint smile of his own, he put the tip of his pencil to the paper and started sketching. He worked in silence, eyes raising only long enough to get a feel for his subject. Grantaire took in everything. Every shadow, every plane, every limb, captured first in his mind's eye and then translated in black and white on the paper. It was the closest to worship Grantaire had ever come. His art had always been important to him, but this was the first time he'd actually striven for absolute perfection. Enjolras deserved nothing less.

“If I'm not mistaken, you're blushing.” Enjolras broke the silence as the line of his pencil drifted below the waist. “I can't imagine Cézanne or van Gogh being so modest.”

“They painted trees and bowls of fruit. Now stop talking and let me finish,” Grantaire admonished with a snort that might have been a concealed laugh. 

*****

Only when Grantaire was satisfied did he finally allow Enjolras to move again. He fastened the sheet around his hips and then leaned over the back of Grantaire's chair to get a look at the finished product. It wasn't the detail that stunned him, although it was perfect down to the folds of fabric. It was his own face, the way Grantaire apparently viewed him. The face that stared back from the paper was him but...more. Enhanced, somehow. He couldn't find the exact words to describe it, but it flooded Enjolras with a warmth he didn't think he'd ever feel toward another person.

He watched Grantaire date the portrait, and sign it with only a single letter, a capital R. The artist tucked the paper into a leather-bound folder, and held it out only to snatch it away again the moment Enjolras reached for it. 

“There's still one thing I need to do before I can let you have this.”

“Oh? What's that?” 

Grantaire didn't answer him with words. He pushed up out of his chair and claimed Enjolras' lips in a searing kiss. It was surprising, but definitely not unpleasant, and despite his lack of experience, he didn't hesitate in responding. Though brief, it left them both somewhat breathless when they pulled apart. Grantaire handed over the folio with a wide smile on his face. “That,” he said brazenly, “was worth waiting for.”

It was Enjolras' turn to flush. “I wouldn't be opposed to a shorter wait next time,” he admitted, but evaded Grantaire's hands when they reached for him again. He had no idea when his father might come back, and he didn't want to find out what would happen if he discovered his son wearing nothing but a bed sheet in the presence of another man, one he had been expressly forbidden to see. Enjolras didn't intend to be there at all when his father found the portrait, which meant he needed to redress and they needed to leave. 

With Grantaire trailing behind him, he crossed the room to a solid wooden desk, pulling out a bit of stationary and a pen to write a note for his father. “Would you mind putting this back in the safe for me?” He paused in his writing to ask the favour of Grantaire, and handed him the ring, safely back in its box. The artist took it, nodded, and then did as asked, leaving Enjolras to finish his note.

*****

Grantaire was still there waiting when he emerged, fully dressed once more, from his bedroom. Enjolras' timing couldn't have been more impeccable. There were footsteps just outside the door, and then the unmistakable sound of a key turning the lock. Enjolras grabbed Grantaire's hand and pulled him into another room, motioning for him to be quiet.

“Enjolras!” his father's voice called from the sitting room. If it had been Combeferre, he would have been more likely to respond. Instead, he kept them moving through the cabin until they reached a second exit to the hallway. They hadn't gone more than ten paces before being spotted by Enjolras' father, leaving the state room once more. He shouted after them as they took off running toward the lifts. A stroke of luck had one waiting when they rounded the corner. Enjolras glared up at his father defiantly until the descending lift removed him from sight.

They rode all the way down to E deck, putting as much distance between themselves and Enjolras' father as they could. It would only be a matter of time before he followed them; descending the stairs didn't take much longer than riding down, after all, but it gave them a small head start. They paused only to catch their breath, a task made more difficult since they both were laughing.

They should have chosen a door without a window in it. Enjolras' father spotted them, and then they were running again, this time through the maze of hallways Grantaire had complained about only a few days before. He knew them now, and led the way, finally pulling Enjolras through an unmarked door that bolted from the inside. It was hard to hear over the roar of the engines coming from below, but they both distinctly made out the sound of a man's fist slamming into the door.

“No way out but down the rabbit hole,” Grantaire yelled over the din, and pointed to the ladder that descended into one of the boiler rooms. Enjolras shrugged and started climbing. 

“Hey! What do you think you're doing down here? You can't be in here!” They had no sooner reached solid footing again when one of the stokers, a young man in a cap with what looked to be the Polish flag pinned to it, shouted at them, and they were off again, this time through the bowels of the ship, the furnaces hot against their skin, until they finally burst through into the cargo hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's drawing is very very loosely based on the painting "Apollo and Vesta", by François André Vincent. You know. If you were curious about the pose that was in my head when I wrote it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Car sex and icebergs.

The quiet chill of the hold was a stark contrast to the heat and noise of the boiler rooms they'd just run through. Rows and rows of boxes, crates, and trunks of all shapes and sizes filled the wide expanse. A brand new automobile sat by itself on a clear patch of floor, as though the crew had feared scratching the paint if anything else was too close.

It didn't seem like anyone was pursuing them, giving them time to catch their breath and slow their pace. Grantaire boldly took Enjolras' hand in his own now that they were alone, and led him through the maze of pallets until they reached the car. Enjolras was actually _smirking_ at him when he looked expectantly from Grantaire to the door. 

Playing along, Grantaire snapped to attention, opened the car door, and offered his hand so Enjolras could climb inside. He was careful to hide his grin behind a haughty façade when he clambered into the driver's seat, pressing on the horn without thinking how loud it would be. Behind him, Enjolras had lowered the glass partition that separated him from the passenger compartment, and was leaning over it, smiling at him. 

“Where to, Monsieur?” Grantaire asked, mimicking the snobbish voices he'd heard upstairs on his visits to the first class decks. 

“Aux étoiles.” 

It was only a whisper, and then Enjolras' arms had gripped him under his own and heaved him bodily into the back seat. Grantaire landed on plush upholstery, and Enjolras' hand fisted in the lapel of the coat-that-wasn't-his, tugging at him until they were face to face, wrapped around one another in a tangle of limbs. For the second time that night alone, his mouth had gone dry and his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. 

Enjolras was looking at him in a way no one ever had before. It spoke to something more than just his libido. Not that he was hearing any complaints from that part of himself, and by the feel of it, neither was Enjolras. Grantaire looked down at where their fingers were twined together, and then back up when Enjolras brought his hand up to his lips and pressed light kisses to each digit in turn, charcoal-covered as they were. 

When Enjolras spoke, he could feel it against his fingertips. “Touch me, Grantaire,” he breathed and then guided the artist's captured hand down his body. It wasn't a command, not exactly, but Grantaire was happy to comply. His palm pressed where Enjolras had guided him, and he felt a shudder run through the blond. Then they were kissing again, and he was shrugging out of his borrowed coat and pushing Enjolras' jacket off his shoulders, eager to feel bare skin under his hands. Grantaire shifted them down onto the seat without breaking contact, and Enjolras' hands were stealing greedy touches of their own, across his chest, down his back, through his hair, trying to touch everywhere at once.

Fingers fumbled with buttons, hands pulled and tugged at fabric until there was nothing left between them. Grantaire studied Enjolras with his hands, mapping every bit of him with his touch the way his eyes had committed him to memory and to paper earlier. He hungrily swallowed every sound of pleasure he drew from Enjolras' mouth as if it were a delicacy. They found a rhythm and moved together, against one another, and that alone would have been enough for Grantaire, but Enjolras stopped him, uttering a single murmured plea. He bent his head down to nuzzle Enjolras' neck and nip at his earlobe. 

“Do you permit it?” He needed to hear it from Enjolras' own lips before he went any further. 

“Yes.”

Grantaire claimed Enjolras' mouth again, while one hand fumbled for his discarded trousers and the provisions his pocket contained. Courfeyrac had proven himself an advantageous friend when he'd gleefully pressed the foil-wrapped package and small vial into Grantaire's hand only a few moments before he'd climbed the first class railing. Now he intended to put the gifts to good use. 

*****

They lay together, happily spent and sated, Enjolras' jacket draped over them against the chill, while his fingers traced idle patterns over Grantaire's skin. The artist was pressing lazy kisses to his neck, his jaw, his shoulder, whatever he could reach without moving too far. Eventually someone would come looking for them, he knew, but for now, Enjolras was content in the afterglow.

“You were fortuitously well-prepared,” he said at last, voicing what had, in the heat of the moment, been unimportant.

“And you are unequivocally talented at ruining the mood.”

He hid his smile and let the silence stretch for a few moments. “How long have you been hoping to have your way with me?”

“Oh, I've been planning it since the day we met. First I thought maybe over the table at dinner that night, but there would have been so many things to clear out of the way. Completely impractical, and that music? It wouldn't have suited us at all. Besides, someone probably would have complained.” Enjolras swatted at him, and Grantaire laughed, a rumble in his chest that echoed in his own since the artist was still halfway on top of him. “I think I preferred it this way,” he added more seriously, punctuating his statement with a kiss. 

Enjolras indulged him briefly and then pulled away. “We should go, before someone finds us and _does_ complain.”

“Why, you don't want to explain to the owner of this thing why he needs to have his brand new car's interior cleaned?”

The cramped space made it hard to dress again, and Grantaire's wandering hands made it harder still, but they managed, and not a moment too soon. They crept away from the car and hid themselves behind a stack of crates mere seconds before two White Star stewards came into sight. One of them pointed out the car windows, still fogged over, and then pulled the door open, clearly expecting to find the intruders still hiding inside.

Grantaire had to bite his lip to keep from snickering aloud. Enjolras gestured at him to move before the stewards started looking again, and they tiptoed their way through the cargo until they reached an exit. Once through it, and up a few flights of stairs, they no longer worried about making too much noise, and were both laughing mirthfully by the time they reached the outside air of the forward deck. 

“Your sense of timing is impeccable,” Grantaire complimented even as he tried to catch his breath. “Did you see their faces? We would have had _so much_ explaining to do if they'd come just a minute sooner.”

“Keep your voice down,” Enjolras urged amiably now that they were back within sight and earshot of other people. He backed towards the wall next to the door they'd just come out of, which afforded a little more privacy. “I've been thinking. When we reach New York, I want to leave with you.”

Grantaire wasn't laughing anymore. He was looking at Enjolras with wide eyes. “You're insane. What about your family? What about Combeferre?”

“I know. I _know_ it doesn't make any sense. I'm not-- I didn't have time for any of this before. I didn't _want_ any of this before. But _you_ showed me that I don't belong in my parents' world anymore. I don't want to be surrounded by those kinds of people anymore. I want to chase my own ideals, and I want you with me.”

Grantaire had been rendered speechless. He could only gape at Enjolras, at the passion with which he spoke. In that moment, he wanted to believe everything Enjolras said, no matter how crazy it sounded. No matter how unlikely it actually was. No matter his sudden doubts that he just wasn't good enough, and eventually Enjolras would see that. Visibility be damned, Grantaire pushed Enjolras back against the wall and kissed him, hard.

They were so focused on each other, neither one saw the looming form of the iceberg until the ship struck it, shuddering the deck beneath their feet and breaking them apart.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings and accusations.

The ship sailed on, and soon, only the broken chunks of ice that littered the forward deck remained as evidence of the collision to those who had witnessed it. Below, however, a different story was unfolding. Buckled metal gave way to a deluge of frigid seawater. It flooded into the forward boiler rooms and set off a flurry of activity as men scrambled to close the dampers, and then, when their efforts became futile, to save themselves before the water-tight doors came slamming down. 

Jehan and Courfeyrac had been startled awake by the impact, and disentangled themselves from both each other and the blankets. Courfeyrac was the first to the floor, and he shouted his surprise at landing in icy water with a few choice words. He would have sworn the level had already risen just in the time it took him to reach the light switch. Jehan was right behind him when he pulled open the door to the hallway, finding it equally flooded. Bahorel was barrelling toward them pulling a jumper on over his pyjamas and demanding they “hurry up and get the hell out”. They were quick to comply, and even quicker to follow a few rats to drier ground.

Combeferre too had been woken by the tremors, but it was the sudden stillness that had him dressing and poking his head out into the hall. The silence meant the engines had been stopped, and they were no longer sailing. The officer he cornered assured him it was nothing, “likely just a propeller blade”, but it was Thomas Andrews, hurrying by with his arms full of rolled blueprints, that made him believe it wasn't “nothing”. When Ismay passed him moments later looking equally harried, he was sure of it.

No one up on deck seemed worried by the incident. A small group of laughing passengers kicked around a chunk of ice like a football, while a few others were tossing another piece back and forth. One man had been standing too close when the iceberg hit, and had the scratches to prove it, but he was being tended to by his companion, who seemed to know what he was doing. Enjolras vaguely wondered if that was the doctor friend Combeferre had told him about, and might have gone over to ask if he hadn't overheard a few of the ship's officers discussing the damage with Captain Smith.

From what he heard them say, Enjolras gathered the ship was damaged enough to be taking on a good deal of water, and parts of her lower decks were already flooded beyond repair. “This is worse than it seems,” he muttered under his breath to Grantaire. “I need to tell my parents, and find Combeferre.” He had meant what he said earlier, about wanting to leave the ship with Grantaire, but at the same time, he couldn't keep the information he now held to himself. He had to warn them, and then he could walk away with a clear conscience.

They walked side by side back to Enjolras' stateroom, close enough for their hands to touch, but not daring to keep any kind of constant contact with each other. The impact had woken nearly everyone from sleep, and so the common areas were too crowded to risk it. 

His father was waiting for him in the hall. The stern look on his face suggested he'd gone back to the room after chasing them down below decks, and found the portrait Enjolras had left behind. The man cast Grantaire a look of utmost loathing when they drew near. “We've been looking for you,” he said, making it clear that he was only referring to his son. He followed them, perhaps a step too closely, into the front room of the cabin and then stood blocking the door, as though he were afraid they might run for it again. 

Enjolras had been expecting to find his family upon his return, but not the Master at Arms and another of the ship's officers. “Something's happened,” he said to the room, even as a flicker of confusion crossed his features. 

“Yes, it has,” his father was quick to interject, and Enjolras was suddenly aware that they were not talking about the same 'something'. “Two things of value went missing from this room tonight. Now that one of them has returned, I believe I know where the other can be found.” He gave a sharp nod, and the two officers were descending on an equally confused Grantaire.

“What's the meaning of this?” Enjolras questioned his father, watching stunned as the Master at Arms pulled the coat right off the artist's shoulders while his subordinate patted him down as though he were a common criminal. “We're in the middle of an emergency! What are you--”

“Is this what you were searching for?” The officer held the diamond ring in his hand.

“What!? This is complete bullshit!” Grantaire exclaimed, giving voice to the exact thought that was going through Enjolras' head at that moment. “You can't believe I'd-- You know I wouldn't!” The two officers were already cuffing his hands behind his back, choosing not to hear any of the artist's protests. He looked to Enjolras for help, since the officers didn't seem interested in anything he had to say.

“No, he couldn't have taken it. I was with him the whole time we were here. This is ridiculous!”

“Perhaps it was while you were putting your clothing back _on_.” His father practically growled the words at him, and there it was. A flicker of doubt. He felt immediately guilty for it, but he had left Grantaire alone with the ring in his hand for just a few minutes. But surely he would have noticed it, felt it in Grantaire's pocket when they'd... And anyway, he wouldn't have taken it. Grantaire's eyes had been on _him_ the whole time, not on the ring. 

“Enjolras, you can't believe them!” Grantaire implored. “Someone must have put it in my pocket!” His eyes flitted briefly to Enjolras' father. He had been following close enough to drop the ring in Grantaire's coat but...

“It isn't even your pocket, is it, boy?” The Master at Arms spoke again. “'Property of Q.E. Baxter'” he read from the tag inside the coat's collar. 

“I just borrowed it, I swear. I was going to give it back!” Grantaire's eyes were desperate now, but all the evidence seemed stacked against him, and Enjolras couldn't find any words at all. He had been ready to believe Grantaire until he himself had admitted to one theft. A second might not have been too far out of the realm of possibility. Enjolras had a hard time even meeting the artist's eye as the officers pulled him, still shouting his innocence, from the room. He was left standing there feeling hollow.

*****

Enjolras had yet to move from where he stood when the door had closed behind the ship's officers. His mother, who had been silent during the entire ordeal, had left the room shortly after without speaking to anyone. His father was standing in front of him, jaw working as though he had something to say. Nothing came out. Instead, his open palm connected with Enjolras' cheek hard enough to snap his head to one side. He didn't turn it back. “You would choose that cur over your own family? Look at me when I'm speaking to you!” he bellowed, grabbing Enjolras' jaw between his fingers forcefully enough to bruise. 

A steward burst in then, ignoring his father's snarled command to leave them alone. “Sorry sir, captain's orders. I'm to see everyone into their life jackets and up to the boat deck. Dress warmly, it's rather cold outside,” he was saying as he crossed the room without invitation to retrieve the life jackets from their storage place in the closet. “I'm sure it's just a precaution,” he added as he handed one to Enjolras, mistaking his disquiet over the night's events for worry over the captain's command.

The moment had been interrupted, but judging by the anger on his father's face as he snatched the life jacket from the steward, it wasn't over. Enjolras accepted his overcoat from the maid, and handed over the life vest so he could put it on. She was already carrying her own, and one for his mother, and bustled away to fetch her before he could get the item back. When the two women returned, they did as the captain had ordered and left the room to join the crowd mingling at the base of the grand staircase, chatting and drinking just as they would any other night. Enjolras didn't dare look up at the clock for fear it would remind him of Grantaire. 

He felt like there was a brick sitting in his stomach, and he didn't like it. Everything had happened so fast, it had left his thoughts reeling. He was still trying to piece them all back together, but the one thing he couldn't seem to get out of his mind was how desperately Grantaire had needed to hear Enjolras confirm his innocence. And he had failed. He had let himself doubt. That weighed on him more heavily than anything his father could ever do to him, but what could he do about it?

What he could do was go and find the Master at Arms, swear that Grantaire had nothing to do with the theft of the ring, and demand he be let go immediately. Suddenly determined, he was about to attempt just that when he felt a hand grab his wrist. It wasn't his father, as he might have expected, but Combeferre, wearing a grave expression. 

“Thank god, I've been looking everywhere for you.” If he thought it strange that Enjolras was alone, he tactfully didn't say anything about it.

Enjolras was suddenly reminded that the situation with Grantaire wasn't the only significant event to take place that night. He hadn't even registered that everyone milling around was wearing a white life vest under their finery, or that behind the sound of the orchestra was the mechanical noise of the lifeboats being prepared. His abrupt realization must have shown on his face.

“I can assume you _had_ actually noticed something was wrong with the ship, yes?” Combeferre muttered dryly. 

“I saw it, the iceberg we hit,” Enjolras replied absently. His attention had shifted to Thomas Andrews, walking through the crowd as if dazed. It was exactly the same look Enjolras had been wearing only a few minutes ago, one that spoke of preoccupied thoughts. Combeferre on his heels, he went after the man until he was close enough to get Andrews' attention. “I saw the iceberg,” he repeated, keeping his voice low. “And I see dread in your eyes. Please tell me the truth.”

Andrews looked from Combeferre to Enjolras and back again, and then his shoulders sagged when he realized there would be no lying to them. “Titanic will sink, there is no doubt of it” he told them. “In an hour, maybe a little more, she'll be at the bottom of the ocean.” He paused to look around, though whether it was at the ship itself or the people who seemed to have no clue of how real the danger was, Enjolras couldn't judge. “Tell only who you must. There is no time to calm a panicked mob. And see yourselves to the boats quickly. Don't wait. You remember what I told you about the boats?” 

Enjolras nodded stiffly. “I understand. Thank you, sir.” It had suddenly become all too real. Only half would fit into the boats. Beside him, he could see Combeferre doing the sums in his head and reaching the same conclusion. Andrews moved away again, leaving both men in stunned silence.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Find me now, find me here.

Titanic was equipped with many things, but a prison cell wasn't one of them. Instead, Grantaire was led to the Master at Arms' office. The officer released his hands from behind his back only to loop them around a pipe and secure them again. By that point, he had at least stopped shouting at them. It wasn't like they were going to listen to him anyway. It also didn't seem likely that Enjolras was going to have a sudden change of heart and come after him.

If he was being honest with himself (and he usually was), it hurt. It hurt that Enjolras thought him capable of stealing from him, of betraying his trust that way. The coat was one thing; he'd needed it to blend in, and since he hadn't known the person he'd liberated it from, he didn't feel much guilt about borrowing it. Enjolras was different. He had been different since the moment he'd crossed into Grantaire's line of sight. 

He supposed it didn't matter much now. By the time they'd reached the office, there was a distinct tilt to the floor. The Master at Arms and his subordinate were discussing what to do with him as though he wasn't standing right next to them. Grantaire wondered how bad the situation actually was, and if they'd bother taking him up to a lifeboat, or just leave him down here to sink with the ship if it came to that. 

The men hadn't reached any conclusion yet when another of the ship's crew came and called the Master at Arms away. That left Grantaire with the subordinate officer, and something about him made the artist uneasy. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he'd seen the same look in the eyes of some of the people he'd encountered in back alleys in Paris. People with whom he would rather not be left alone.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and the Master at Arms hadn't returned. The porthole next to Grantaire's head was slowly sinking further under the water line. He could feel the slant of the ship now. The officer guarding him had taken to placing a bullet from his pistol across the table top in front of him, and watching as it rolled back into his hand. “I do believe,” he told Grantaire, when it became painfully obvious the Master at Arms wasn't coming back, “the ship may sink.” He stood then, pocketing the bullet and walking over to where the artist stood. “I was paid to give you this, courtesy of your friends upstairs.” His fist connected just once with Grantaire's stomach, but it was enough to drive the air out of his lungs and double him over as he gasped for breath.

He didn't notice the officer grab the key for the handcuffs off the table and pocket it before he walked out of the room. Not five minutes later, water slowly began to trickle in.

*****

“For the time being, I shall require only women and children!” The crewman's voice rang out over the milling crowd on deck. Enjolras and Combeferre, having relayed Andrews' warning to their parents, insisted they go out right away when the boats were ready, ignoring any and all complaints that it was still far too cold to be standing around outside. 

Above them, the first of the rockets burst in a shower of white sparks, bathing the deck in light as the first of the women stepped into the boats. Behind him, Enjolras heard his father trying to convince the officer in charge to allow him to accompany his wife, and he set his jaw. Not because he had been left out of any pleading for a seat, but because of how entitled his father seemed to think he was. His mother was no better. 

“Will the lifeboats be seated according to class?” she asked no one in particular. “I do hope they're not too crowded.”

“Shut up, mother,” he finally snapped, rounding on her, blue eyes blazing. She was clearly taken aback by the way Enjolras spoke to her, but an apology never crossed his mind. “Don't you understand? The water is freezing, and there aren't enough seats in the boats for everyone on board. Half the people on this ship are going to die.”

There was a pregnant pause, and then his father spoke. “Not the better half.”

Those four words struck him like a thunderbolt of realization. Those least likely to get off the ship alive were third class. Grantaire. Jehan. Bahorel. Courfeyrac. The friends Enjolras had made in the few short days since he'd met the artist wouldn't stand a chance. Not when they were seen as expendable by people like his father. 

“It's a pity I didn't keep that drawing. It will be worth a fortune by morning.”

The last bit of hold Enjolras had over his temper was gone. “You elitist bastard,” he said furiously. His mother had already stepped into the boat, but was looking back at them anxiously. He didn't know if it was because she had expected him to get into it with her, despite the crewman's orders, or because she had at least hoped he would stay with his father and wait for the next boat. He wasn't about to do either. 

Enjolras only needed to glance at Combeferre to know that he understood. He gave a subtle nod of his head, and the corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a supportive smile, and with those minute gestures, Combeferre had given his blessing to what Enjolras was about to do without a single word. He glanced once to his father, then locked eyes with his mother. “Adieu,” was all he said to her before he walked away.

He could hear his mother calling after him frantically from the boat, and then his father furiously following him and grabbing his arm in a tight hold, forcing him to turn around. “Where do you think you're going? To _him_?” He said the word as though it was distasteful to even speak it. “My son will not be made a queer by some gutter rat.”

Enjolras' lip curled as he regarded his father coldly. “I'd rather be among the rats than be your son.” 

He tried to wrench his arm free, but his father only gripped more tightly. “Don't you dare turn your back on me, boy,” he forced out between gritted teeth. Enjolras did the first thing that came to mind. He spat in his father's face and took advantage of his shock to pull away and disappear into the crowd.

*****

Enjolras wasn't panicking. He wasn't, because he didn't panic. He might have been mildly perturbed but that wasn't the same thing. He'd realized, once he'd gone back inside, that he didn't know where Grantaire might have been taken, and the ship was so big, he'd never be able to search everywhere before the last of the lifeboats launched and the ship was lost. He had to find someone to help him, but so far, he hadn't seen a single crewman who might have known.

He was just short of running now, down every corridor he could find until he almost literally bumped into Andrews. He'd been going room to room, clearing out anyone left in them personally and urging everyone else to get up to the boats as quickly as possible. 

“Mr. Andrews! I'm glad to see you. Where would the Master at Arms take someone under arrest?” Enjolras questioned breathlessly. 

He regarded Enjolras with a mixture of confusion and concern. “What? Please, you have to get up to the boats, quickly!” Andrews responded, putting his hands on Enjolras' shoulders, but he brushed them off and dug in his heels with the same stubbornness that had consistently gotten him into trouble since childhood.

“I'm doing this with or without your help. The faster you tell me where to go, the faster I find what I'm looking for, and the faster I reach the boats. They aren't letting men into the boats right now anyway so I have time. But not enough if you don't tell me what I need to know.”

Andrews seemed momentarily taken aback by Enjolras' ferocity, and then he sighed in defeat. “Take the elevator all the way down, to E Deck. Go left at the bottom, down Scotland Road, then right at the stairs. His office is along that corridor. Quickly now, and back up to the boats as soon as you can.”

Enjolras nodded, thanked Andrews, and took off again, this time in the direction of the lifts. The operator refused to take him anywhere until he grabbed the startled crewman by his shirt collar and pushed him up against the back wall. “I'm through being polite, goddammit, now take me down.” Terrified, he did as told. 

They hadn't quite gotten all the way to the bottom when water started rushing in. It was nearly up to Enjolras' knees, and cold as ice, but he forced the lift gates open and trudged through it, oblivious to the crewman's pleas that he go back up with him. 

*****

Grantaire was panicking. He had tried yelling for help, and clanking his cuffed hands against the pipe to draw someone's attention, anyone's. No matter how much noise he made, no one came. The port hole was completely underwater now, and the water level inside the room was rising with each passing moment. 

It had only taken a few minutes before he stopped being able to feel his feet. The thought of being trapped there, freezing, until the room filled and he drowned, was unappealing at best. Within the realm of possibility, given his current circumstances, but not how he wanted to go. 

Grantaire climbed onto the desk that had been lifted and pushed closer by the rising water in a vain attempt to keep himself relatively warm and dry. When the lights above him dimmed and then brightened again, he redoubled his efforts to call for help, because being trapped, freezing, and drowning _in the dark_ was that much worse. What he never expected to hear was a reply. Not just a reply, but his own name. And not just his own name, but his own name shouted by the one person he most wanted to see.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire shouted, using his voice to try and guide the way, and then there he was in the doorway, wading through the water.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras rushed over to him with a string of apologies and met him with a kiss that was all desperation and relief and maybe a tiny bit of atonement.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narrow escapes.

Enjolras' greeting, while pleasant and very much appreciated, didn't solve Grantaire's immediate predicament. He was still handcuffed to a pipe, in a room that was rapidly filling with icy water. “As much as I'm enjoying all this attention, can we maybe do it somewhere else? See if you can find a way to get these things off me. Maybe there's a spare key around here somewhere,” he suggested. “It'll be small and silver.”

Spurred into action, Enjolras rifled through the cabinets and desk drawers. Grantaire followed his movement with his eyes until curiosity got the better of him. “What made you come back? What convinced you that I didn't do it?”

“Nothing. I mean, I didn't need convincing. I never really believed it in the first place.”

“I'm touched. Not as much as I would have been if you'd come before I got wet and lost feeling in my feet, but I'll take what I can get.”

That earned him a half-hearted glare from Enjolras, who then slammed the desk drawer shut. “There's nothing here. All the keys are brass, and too big.”

“It was a longshot anyway. You're going to need to go find someone to help.” Help _how_ , exactly, he didn't know. Maybe there was someone left who could find them a spare key. 

Enjolras nodded, then hesitated. He waded back to Grantaire, and pressed another firm kiss to his mouth. “I'll be right back, I promise.” 

“I'll just wait here,” Grantaire called to his back as he disappeared through the open door.

*****

The water was nearly to his chest when Enjolras reached the stairs. No one in their right mind would have remained in the flooded parts of E Deck so he climbed them. His relief at being on dry ground again was short-lived when he thought about how quickly the lower deck was filling. He only had a few minutes to find someone, or something, to free Grantaire before the room would be underwater completely. 

It didn't help that the hallways all looked the same, and made no sense to him. The only parts of third class he'd seen were the saloon, and the brief stop at Grantaire's cabin to retrieve his art supplies. All of that seemed so long ago, and he'd gotten so turned around, he didn't know where he was in relation to those places. Worse, it was deserted. Hallway after hallway, Enjolras didn't encounter a single person.

He could tell by the downward tilt of the floor that he was going toward the front of the ship, and then suddenly there was water there too. Not deep, not yet, but creeping steadily towards him. He turned around and ran, searching frantically for anyone who might have been left. There was one man, muttering in a language he didn't understand, who dashed past without ever acknowledging he was there, and then, just as he was growing desperate, one of the ship's stewards. 

“What are you still doing down here? Come on then, up to the boats! Follow me, this way!” he chattered, clearly somewhat panicked himself. He took Enjolras' arm and tried to pull him in the direction of the stairwell, away from where Grantaire was. The steward didn't even seem to hear his protests, or his explanation that there was someone trapped who needed help.

“Let _go_!” he finally shouted, planting his feet and refusing to budge. Enjolras was so adamant about going back for Grantaire that he lashed out, hitting the steward squarely in the nose. He dropped the armful of life vests he'd been carrying and staggered back in shock, one hand pressed to his face. 

“To hell with you then!” he exclaimed as he tried to staunch the bleeding, then ran off, leaving Enjolras alone again.

Cursing loudly and thinking he'd just ruined any chance of getting help, Enjolras' eyes fell on the glass case across the hall, and more importantly, the fire axe inside. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing, and he simply wouldn't accept defeat. 

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs again, the water was over his shoulders. He had to use the pipes that ran along the ceiling to keep his head above water until the floor angled up to meet him and he could stand. The cold made it hard to breathe, but he fought his way back to the office, finding Grantaire crouched on top of the desk.

“Will this work?” Enjolras asked, hefting the axe up out of the water. 

“Oh you've got to be joking,” Grantaire whined, then seemed to reconsider, given it was his only option. “I guess we'll find out. Have you ever used one before?”

Enjolras shook his head no. 

“Perfect. Maybe you'd better take a couple practice swings,” the artist said, looking a little unsettled. 

They didn't have time for much practice, but Enjolras agreed that his first swing probably shouldn't have been so close to Grantaire's limbs. He swung once at a wooden cabinet, then again as he tried to hit the same mark.

He missed. By quite a large distance.

“I think that's enough practice,” Grantaire told him, definitely unsettled now and perhaps a bit pale. “Just do it quick, and hit it as hard as you can.” He spread his wrists as far apart as the chain would allow, and then pressed his eyes shut.

Enjolras took a moment to aim, but even he couldn't look as the blade fell with a clang. When there were no cries of pain that followed, he dared to open his eyes. Luck had been on his side. He found the chain severed and Grantaire freed.

“I knew you could do it!” Grantaire exclaimed, laughing in a slightly manic way as he pulled Enjolras into a one-armed embrace.

“You're a horrible liar,” he replied, but he was grinning too. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

Grantaire nodded his agreement, then let out a colourful stream of expletives when he climbed down from the desk and into the water. Enjolras had to concur. It was really fucking cold.

They trudged out into the hallway only to find water cascading down the stairs that Enjolras had used only a few minutes ago. “We've got to find another way,” he said, and they set out in the opposite direction, moving aft until they reached a doorway through to the main corridor, and more importantly, dry ground. 

*****

The dry parts of E Deck were in chaos. The main stairwell was packed with people clamouring in dozens of different languages, some afraid and some just confused. They had been shooed from their rooms, but the stairs up to the boat deck were blocked by black iron gates. Bahorel had been shouting obscenities at the crewmen on the other side when they finally relented and unlocked them. Their cries of “Women and children only!” were drowned out by the veritable stampede that tried to force through the gates the second they were opened. 

Fearing the mob, one crewman took the butt of a fire axe to any man attempting to push through while a steward loaded a pistol, brandishing it threateningly. They pushed the crowd back, then secured the gate once more. The angry voices grew louder, and those closest began an assault on the gate itself in the hopes that they could break through it. “For god's sake there are women and children down here!” Bahorel shouted, his fury barely contained, but it did no good. The crewmen were spooked now, and had backed away, eyeing the crowd warily and unwilling to make a second effort to open the gate.

With a last glare at the stewards, Bahorel pushed his way back down the stairs, and to his surprise, found Grantaire and Enjolras at the bottom, just joining the horde of people. Both of them were soaked and shivering, but there was no time for an explanation. “Those bastards have us locked in. It's hopeless that way,” he told them.

“Then we'll need to find another. Have you seen Jehan and Courfeyrac?” Grantaire asked. The question had barely left his mouth when the poet himself came rushing up and threw his arms around the artist's neck. Courfeyrac was right behind him, grinning in spite of his fear. He looked like he might actually ask Grantaire right there in the middle of the masses whether he'd had the chance to use the 'supplies' he'd been given earlier. Since it was neither the time nor the place for _that_ conversation, Grantaire preempted him. “There's water everywhere. It's all flooded farther down the hall. We need to get out of here, and fast.”

Jehan shook his head, and pointed in the direction from which he and Courfeyrac had come. “There isn't anything that way. We came from checking another stairwell, and it's the same as here.”

“We'll keep looking, then. Come on.” 

The others behind him, Grantaire led the way through the corridors. They were narrow as it was, and made even more difficult to navigate by abandoned luggage and confused passengers, but the small group finally came to a stairwell that wasn't too crowded. It was still barred, however. At the top, the one steward tasked with manning the gate seemed to be doing nothing but repeating the same words: “Go back to the main stairwell.”

Grantaire got the same response to his demands that they open the gate, but he wasn't about to take 'No' for an answer. At the bottom of the narrow staircase, he found a wooden bench. Between himself, Bahorel, and Courfeyrac, they managed to pry it from the floor. Enjolras and Jehan cleared a path for them, and they used it as a battering ram. Two strikes later, the iron gave way.

The five of them, and the few others who had been standing at the gate when they'd arrived, clambered through the opening. “You can't do this!” the steward shouted after them, but was cut short when Bahorel punched him in the face as he passed.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here at the end of all things.

By the time they reached the boat deck, the davits stood empty. The boats they once held dotted the water below, all of them gaining distance from the sinking ship. Most were nowhere near full. 

The spreading panic was an almost tangible thing that grew with each boat launched. The other passengers were starting to realize what Enjolras and Grantaire already knew. Most of them were going to end up sinking with the ship. Fights were breaking out with alarming frequency, and from somewhere on the other side of the ship, gunshots rang out. Above them, another flare shot into the sky in what seemed like a futile effort. There were no other ships in sight; none could possibly reach them before Titanic disappeared beneath the waves.

After a brief conversation with a well-dressed couple Enjolras obviously knew, the five of them were dashing counterintuitively towards the front of the ship. There were a few boats left there, and while their chances were still slim given they were all men, it was better than no chance at all. 

They stopped only long enough for Bahorel to try to break up a fight by joining it. He had no idea what had caused it but it had been three on one before he stepped in. His enthusiasm alone evened the odds. When he emerged from the brawl, he was dragging another man along by the arm. Enjolras and Grantaire both recognized him as the stoker who tried to stop them earlier, down in the boiler room. He introduced himself as Feuilly while they exchanged a look and two barely concealed smiles. 

Once he had joined them, Feuilly just seemed to fit, much as Courfeyrac and Bahorel had, and he followed them without ever thinking to question why. Their party now up to six, they pressed on until they saw the last remaining boats. Beyond the railing of the boat deck, they could see only water, already above the bow and lapping at the bridge. Although there were far fewer people gathered around each davit than there were farther back, there were still more than the boats could safely handle. The officers were shouting at the crowds to stay back, some brandishing weapons in a desperate attempt to keep order. They clung to their standing orders, women and children only, and threatened any man who tried to break for the boats.

“Enjolras! Grantaire!” Combeferre's voice shouted above the others, and he wound his way through the mass of people to reach them. With him were Joly, Bossuet, and Marius of all people, who looked somewhat stricken by the whole ordeal. Combeferre had found him shortly after he'd put Cosette into a lifeboat and seen her safely off, and Marius had followed, not knowing what else to do since he'd been separated from his beloved. 

“My father?” Enjolras questioned, scanning the remaining faces. Combeferre shook his head.

“Gone. Bought himself a spot in a lifeboat. He paid off an officer on the other side for you too, if you want to take it.”

Enjolras declined, just as Combeferre predicted he would. He wasn't going to save himself if it meant leaving the others, leaving Grantaire, behind. Besides, there were still women on board, and children, and he would not let even a single one of them die on account of his father's money. If he survived this, it would not be at someone else's expense. 

Enjolras' conviction was catching, drawing words of agreement from the others. They were a motley bunch, representing every class on board, right down to the ship's crew, and although some of them had never met until that moment, they felt like puzzle pieces being put into place. This was where each of them belonged. A strange sense of serenity seemed to befall them. They stood together, the ten of them, immobile, like a rock amidst a steady stream of moving people. Gone was the panic to reach a boat, to save themselves, to find a way off the ship before she sank. They understood now. For them, there would be no escape. 

“Each man to his duty and don't be afraid,” Enjolras murmured to them, speaking in a voice that didn't sound entirely his own, and one by one, they nodded. 

No one uttered another word, not even to say 'goodbye'.

Jehan, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly broke away towards the other side of the ship, to help where they could with the last remaining lifeboats. Bahorel was the first of them to fall, an officer's bullet striking him in the chest when he was shoved from behind by the panicked crowd. The officer put the gun to his own head shortly after. The last anyone saw of Jehan, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac, they were valiantly cutting the davit ropes in a desperate attempt to free the final lifeboat before the ship pulled it, and its occupants, under. 

Combeferre embraced Enjolras as a brother, and then took Joly and Bossuet with him when he disappeared again into the crowd. They did their part, guiding women and children to the last remaining boats, and helping the officers to keep order. The rising water swallowed them all, in the end.

Marius stayed with Enjolras and Grantaire, even as they fought their way to the ship's stern. Even as the lights finally flickered and died, the electrical generators flooded. Even as the massive ship split in two with a deafening crack. Even as they clung tenaciously to the railing, hand in hand. There they remained until the rushing water came up to meet them, and the ship finally disappeared from sight.

*****

At first, there was a great clamour, a cacophony of voices calling for help.

Then there was silence. 

Only one lifeboat returned to the field of bodies, searching for anyone who had somehow survived.

They pulled Marius from the frigid water, alive, but barely.

For the rest, help came too late.

Many of them were never recovered, lost to the sea.

Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Joly. Bossuet. Bahorel. Jean Prouvaire. Feuilly. Names on paper, a list checked against the numbered bodies as they were pulled from the water. Names on headstones, in a cemetery in Halifax. 

They found Enjolras and Grantaire floating together, their hands still joined.

No one came forward to claim either body.

Their graves lay side by side, simple markers with the same words.

Died April 15, 1912. RMS Titanic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for killing everyone. Blame my need for Brick-compliance.


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crack returns.

“Do you think we should take bets?”

“On what?”

“On how long it's going to take.”

A long-suffering sigh.

“On how long _what's_ going to take?”

“How long it's going to take this time for Marius to kick it, and all of it to start over again.”

“Why, are you in some kind of hurry?”

“This place is a lot nicer than the last one.”

“This one has a never-ending supply of alcohol. I think it must be heaven.”

“Your heaven, maybe. The rest of us are stuck here with you.”

“Hey!”

“Can you even taste it? I mean, we're dead.”

“That's not the point. If Bahorel gets to smoke the expensive cigars, I get to drink the expensive booze.”

Nine young men sat around Titanic's smoking room, bantering back and forth. Sunlight came streaming in through the stained glass windows. Courfeyrac and Jehan were contentedly sharing a chair, and Grantaire was contentedly sharing a bottle of whiskey, mostly with himself, while making eyes at Enjolras, who pretended not to notice.

“Do you think maybe next time we'll live to see old age?”

“I just hope I live long enough to get Enjolras into bed again.”

“Or the back seat of a car?”

“Or the back seat of a car.”

“You're never going to get tired of telling that story, are you?”

“Nope.”

From outside, there came a sudden rush of noise, cheering and applause.

“The hell is going on out there?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Some girl named Rose jus' got here.” Gavroche's head poked through the door long enough to give them the news, and then he sprinted off again. 

They looked at each other, and shrugged.

“Another round of cards then?”


End file.
